Hogan Plays Chaperone and other lost episodes
by Hildegaarde
Summary: Episodes that might have been had the show continued...and had the scriptwriters been reading my computer files...
1. Hogan Plays Chaperone

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters but they've graciously appeared in my stories anyway.

**_August 1943, Nazi Germany._**

**_1000 hours local time._**

It was supposed to be summer in Stalag 13, but to the men imprisoned there it felt more like the beginning of winter. Unseasonal storms were a double-edged sword, providing cover for clandestine activities but also making it more uncomfortable for the men who braved the weather.

Colonel Robert Hogan zipped his jacket a little higher and folded both hands around the mug of coffee that LeBeau poured for him. "You're supposed to change places with an agent in Berlin?" he repeated.

"That's right." The newcomer was no longer wearing his parachute harness from the drop, but his face showed traces of dark grease. "London received word that the Gestapo is suspicious of Kendall and they want him out. I'm supposed to take his place. Your part is to get him here and then back to England, and get me to Berlin."

LeBeau whistled softly from his place by the stove.

"Blimey, d'they think we're a taxi service?" a British accent floated down from the bunk by the door. "D'they know how many patrols there are between 'ere and Berlin? Can't be done, Colonel!"

"Newkirk, may I remind you that we're under orders?" Hogan retorted. "Okay, it's a bit different—we usually get people out of Germany, not into it, but we'll think of something. Kinch, take Smith here down the tunnel until we're ready to move."

"Sure thing, Colonel." The tall, African-American sergeant tapped the catch to the tunnel entrance, and the bunk mattress lifted into the air.

"Oh, and Kinch? Try to make contact with Kendall and tell him to be ready to move at a moment's notice."

"Will do." Sgt. Kinchloe vanished into the tunnel with Smith in tow.

Hogan sipped his coffee and contemplated the problem he now had on his hands. "Where's Carter?"

"Down in the tunnel tryin' to blow us all sky-'igh," Newkirk told him.

"He's still working on those new detonators," LeBeau complained. "The last explosion he set off nearly made my cake fall."

"Well, we better think of some way to switch these guys. I'll be in my office if anyone wants me."

He barely had time to rise from the rough wooden table before the door creaked open and the round figure of the German sergeant Schultz marched into the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Guten morgen! You are baking a cake, LeBeau? What kind?"

"Apple crumb, if it doesn't fall," the Frenchman replied pessimistically. "Don't you ever knock, Schultzie?"

"Ja, but I smelled the cake and I did not want to waste time," the barracks guard said in a dignified tone. "Colonel Hogan, the kommandant wishes to see you in his office. He is—" he paused for effect and rolled his 'r's "ver-r-r-y upset."

"Oh? What about?" Hogan asked casually.

"I know nothing—" Schultz broke off as a piece of licorice appeared between Hogan's fingers. "Licorice," he sighed. "Colonel Klink is afraid—"

"What's new about that?" Newkirk interrupted. "Klink's scared of 'is own shadow."

"He has just heard that Frau Linkmeyer is no longer going to marry the Wehrmacht captain. He has also heard that Frau Linkmeyer is visiting friends in Hamilburg, and he is worried that she will come after him," the sergeant said in a rush, and was rewarded by the licorice.

"Well, I don't want to keep our beloved kommandant waiting," Colonel Hogan set down his coffee mug, adjusted his hat, and herded Schultz out.

* * *

Luftwaffe Colonel Wilhelm Klink was pacing around his office with his riding crop under his arm when Hogan entered.

"You wanted to see me, Kommandant?" He casually opened the box of cigars on the desk but jerked his hand back when Klink slammed the box shut.

"I've got a big problem, Hogan, and I don't need to put up with your monkeyshines," he snapped, dropping into his desk chair.

"Your problem wouldn't be about five foot two and related to General Burkhalter, would she?"

"How did you know?" Klink looked up miserably. "That fat idiot Schultz, I suppose."

"You called for me because you know that I've helped you in the past." Hogan once again reached for a cigar, and this time he was successful. "You want me to get rid of Gertrude for you."

"Yes, yes!" Klink nodded so hard he nearly lost his monocle. "Do you have any ideas?" Absentmindedly he lit the cigar with his own lighter.

"I'm thinking." Hogan sat down uninvited in the chair opposite Klink's desk and pondered his own problem of how to move the agents until a solution dawned. "I've got it!"

"What is it? What should I do?" Klink demanded.

"It'll be difficult," Hogan warned him, gesturing with the smoking cigar.

"Not nearly as difficult as standing at the altar with that woman!" Klink was nearly whimpering.

"You'll have to find a girl—a nice girl—to take out to dinner, and they're in short supply around here. This is a prison camp, after all." He stretched his arms above his head while Klink chewed his thumbnail in an effort to think. "There's one in your outer office," he muttered after a few minutes, rolling his eyes. Was it possible for anyone to be as dense as Klink?

"Of course! Fraulein Hilda! Thank you Hogan, you may go, and send my secretary in here when you leave."

"Just a minute! You haven't heard the rest of my plan yet! You'll need a sure-fire way for her to hear about your evening, and that's where I come in. I'm your witness."

"You?" Klink demanded. "How are you going to—"

"I'll go along with you and Hilda," Hogan announced casually. "I'm sure she knows a girl she could invite along for me. Don't forget to order champagne."

"Prisoners of war don't go out on dates! And why a friend of Hilda's? Is there some monkey business going on?"

"Simple," Hogan shrugged. "I thought she'd know someone. Unless you'd prefer I sit and play chaperone all evening—and I'm sure you don't want that."

"Colonel Hogan!" Klink snapped. "I can't think of a more miserable way to spend an evening than to have you as a third on a date! All right, ask Hilda to bring along a friend. I'll make reservations at the Hofbrau for tonight. Diiiss-missed!"

Hogan stood to leave. "Tomorrow would be more convenient, sir."

"Okay, tomorrow night then! What does it matter to you? You don't have anywhere to go."

"Actually, the Escape Committee meets tonight, and I don't want to miss it." He swept out the door before Klink could make a retort.

Hilda was busily typing a stack of reports in the outer office, but when Hogan sat on a corner of her desk she paused in her work to smile at him.

"Hey, honey, how would you like to have dinner with me at the Hofbrau?" he asked cheerfully.

"But you're a prisoner," she protested mildly, not sounding at all surprised by the suggestion. He'd sprung some wild schemes on the Germans over the years he'd been a prisoner.

"Klink wants my help on a little rescue project."

"Protecting him from Frau Linkmeyer again?" The words carried a knowing lilt. Among the crowded conditions of a P.O.W camp, rumors were as abundant as vermin.

"Yeah. Now listen. Klink is gonna ask you out, and I'm supposed to have you bring along a girl for me. I'll bring a date for Klink, and you and I can spend a nice evening together. How 'bout it?"

She tilted her head to the side and flashed a smile. "All right."

"Thatagirl." He dropped a bar of genuine American chocolate on her desk and left the office whistling under his breath.

Col. Hogan strode briskly across the compound, waving Newkirk and Carter away from their game of horseshoes. They followed him into the barracks without question and joined the others in Hogan's office.

"Okay, guys, I've got it!" He clapped his hands together once and then began to outline his plan. Four faces stared back at him with varying sceptical frowns. "What's the matter?"

"Well, Colonel, it sounds a little . . . ambitious." Newkirk protested. "Maybe you oughta have a nice cuppa tea and think of somethin' else."

"Boy, you can say that again!" Carter piped up. "How're you gonna convince Klink to go out with Gertrude? He'll flip!"

"He doesn't know that it's the Iron Maiden," Hogan explained, slightly impatiently. "He thinks he's having dinner with Hilda. Now the timing of this whole operation has to be exact. Kinch, did you make contact with Kendall?"

"He's standing by for instructions," Kinch acknowledged.

"Right. Tell him to switch places with Burkhalter's driver—the underground can help him with that. Then get Frau Linkmeyer's hotel on the phone and invite her to dinner with Klink tomorrow night at the Hofbrau."

"Okay," the sergeant agreed with a shrug of his shoulders that implied it wasn't his fault if the mission went south.

"Tomorrow you get on the phone to Klink and tell him that there's an Allied agent on the loose, and have him use the troops guarding the research lab outside Hamilburg to search-that's the same lab that the underground reported to us yesterday. Then call Burkhalter and tell him you've left Klink in charge. That'll bring him in a hurry."

"Will do, but just one question, sir. Why bring in the troops?"

"Because you and LeBeau are going to blow up the lab when the troops leave. Carter, make sure they've got explosives and detonators."

"You got it, boy—sir."

"Newkirk, Carter, you'll go out as Gestapo, with Smith in a German uniform. You stop Burkhalter's car on the road, arrest Kendall, and tell Burkhalter that Smith is his temporary replacement."

"That way there won't be a search for Kendall when he disappears," LeBeau finished for him, catching onto the plan.

"Right. And, Smith will have the 'Gestapo' vouching for his loyalty, so Burkhalter won't be suspicious."

"Where does your date in town with Klink fit into all of this?" LeBeau asked.

Hogan screwed his face up in disgust. "Please, LeBeau! You make it sound as though I'm spending the evening with him for pleasure. I'm giving Klink an alibi, getting him out of camp so he can't interfere with the mission, and getting Gertrude off his back for him. Burkhalter is going to be so angry with Klink that he'll cart his sister back to Berlin. All business."

"Don't tell Hilda that your night out with her is all business," Kinch ribbed.

* * *

Kinch waited until he received word that Klink was dozing in his office before he made his phone call. Sitting comfortably in the tunnel's radio room with his feet on a table, he listened to the phone ring and rehearsed his speech.

"Stalag 13, heil Hitler, Colonel Klink speaking?"

"Klink? This is General Kinchmeyer, General Staff, Berlin," the tall black sergeant snarled into the phone.

"Oh! General! What a great pleasure it is to hear from you General," Klink blathered.

"Shut up and listen!" he shouted. "An Allied agent working in Berlin has escaped. I want you to be on the lookout for him. Use whatever troops are in your area to search—even the ones from the research lab if necessary!"

"Yes General, you can depend on me General."

"I doubt it," Kinch growled. "That is all Klink. I don't care how you do it, just _find that agent_!" He shrieked the last words and then slammed the phone down, looking up to meet Newkirk's laughing eyes.

"That ought to do it," Newkirk grinned. "'Ope Burkhalter's as easy to convince."

Kinch was already putting the call through. "General Burkhalter, heil Hitler. This is Oberleutnant Kinchmeyer, personal aide to Reichsfuhrer Himmler. _Ja_, I am calling about an agent that has apparently escaped from Berlin and may be heading toward Hamilburg. I have contacted your man there, a Colonel Fink—"

"Do you mean Klink?" Burkhalter asked with a heavy sigh, as though the name conjured unpleasant images.

"_Ja_, that was it," Kinch agreed. "I have left him in charge of the search in his area, but you are his superior officer so I am notifying you. His success or failure will reflect directly on you. Do you understand Herr Himmler's meaning?"

"Absolutely. I will take personal charge of the search at once," Burkhalter vowed.

The two P.O.W.s exchanged grins as Kinch hung up the phone.

* * *

Hogan was giving a final tug to his tie when Schultz entered his room. "Colonel Hogan, the car is waiting, and Kommandant Klink and Fraulein Hilda are ready to leave," he announced. "I am to go with you to pick up your lady friend to see that you do not escape."

"Sure, Schultz." He checked his uniform jacket and flipped his cap onto his head.

"Please tell me there will be no escape," the enormous guard pleaded apprehensively, and Hogan almost felt sorry for him.

"Well, I won't escape," he promised cheerfully. "Klink might want to by the night's end though."

Schultz checked over his shoulder before he replied. "Him, we can do without."

* * *

When they arrived at the Hofbrau Schultz stopped the car and opened the doors for Klink and Hilda, while Hogan stayed in the vehicle.

"Now Schultz, you are not to let Hogan out of your sight, is that clear?" the Nazi colonel ordered.

"_Ja wohl_," Schultz saluted as well as he could with his large stomach shoved behind a steering wheel and then drove away from the curb. "Where to, Colonel Hogan?"

"Just down the street at the hotel. She'll be waiting outside."

Abruptly Schultz slammed his foot on the brake, throwing them both forward. "Colonel Hogan," he whimpered. "I see only one woman outside the hotel. Please tell me it is not her."

"Who isn't who, Schultz?" Hogan hid his grin as a short, stern-faced woman several years his senior moved toward the car.

"It is Frau Linkmeyer." The sergeant closed his eyes as though hiding. "Kommandant Klink is going to kill me."

"Why should he? You had nothing to do with it."

"Doesn't matter. He will find a reason anyway."

The first person Hogan saw when he entered the restaurant dining room was Hilda, sitting at a table for four with a longsuffering expression on her face. Klink had his back to them, but when she looked up he stood and turned around.

"Good evening—" his face collapsed, almost dropping his monocle. "Frau Linkmeyer?"

The look he sent Hogan's way could have cut glass, but it failed to affect its intended recipient. As the others exchanged greetings, he blithely shifted the chairs so that he would be seated next to Hilda, leaving Klink to take the position beside Frau Linkmeyer.

"_Guten abend_, Wilhelm. It was so kind of you to invite me," Gertrude smiled up at Klink.

"Me? I mean, it was my pleasure." Klink managed a grimace in response and then scowled at Hogan again, who grinned innocently back and wondered how his men were faring.

* * *

Carter and Newkirk were dressed as Gestapo agents, standing on the dark road to Stalag 13, stamping their feet in an effort to keep warm. Smith was a short distance away, wearing the uniform of a German soldier.

"What happens if Burkhalter doesn't take this road?" Carter asked suddenly.

Newkirk looked disgusted. "Then we got a 'eap of trouble, don't we? You would 'ave to think of something like that." He tipped his companion's cap forward over his eyes.

As Carter straightened the hat, a set of headlights came sweeping around the corner and bore down on them. "Get ready, Smith," Newkirk ordered.

"Righto. I say, you chaps have a smashing organization to be able to pull something like this off," Smith put in, gesturing vaguely at his costume. "But this is a rather wild scheme, don't you think?"

"Actually, this one's tame compared to some things we've done," Carter chuckled. "You shoulda seen the time we blew up—" His last words were drowned out by a squeal of tires and brakes as the car slammed to a stop.

The driver rolled down his window. "General Burkhalter is on his way to Stalag 13," he snapped.

"Gestapo." Newkirk's voice was harsh, and no one would have recognized it as the same Cockney accent that had spoken moments before. "Out of the car, _bitte_."

The rotund general opened his door and stuck his head out. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"_Bitte, Herr General_," Newkirk apologized. "We have just received a tip that your driver is under suspicion as an Allied agent. A Colonel Plink contacted us—"

"Not Klink!" the general screeched.

"_Ja_, Klink was the name," Carter agreed simperingly.

"That _dummkopf_," Burkhalter complained as Carter hauled Kendall from the car. The British agent offered no protest or resistance as Newkirk waved Smith over.

"We have a replacement driver for you. This man will be taken to headquarters for questioning."

"What business does Klink have interfering with my staff? He will hear of this, I assure you!"

"_Ja wohl, heil Hitler_!" Both P.O.W.s saluted and stepped back as Smith took over the driver's seat of the car. "Enjoy your visit to Stalag 13," Carter added.

The only reply he received was a grunt and a slammed door. The car roared away, splattering mud in all directions, and the 'Gestapo' melted into the woods with their 'prisoner'.

* * *

There was no sign of troops around the research lab, but LeBeau and Kinch inspected the area carefully before they moved in.

"Looks good to me." Kinch lowered his binoculars and checked the explosives in a sack over his shoulder.

LeBeau nodded. "Let's go."

It was a fairly simple matter to cut through the wire fence, attach a pack of dynamite to each corner of the building marked _Sächlich_, and set the timers on Carter's detonators. They finished the task in record time and found a place in the woods to observe the results of their handiwork.

"Seven, six, five," LeBeau counted the seconds down on his watch. His "four" was cut off by the explosion.

"How do you like that?" Kinch groused. "His detonators blow up early!"

"He better come up with something more reliable for the next job! I wonder how Colonel Hogan is getting on?"

* * *

At that same moment Colonel Hogan was sipping a glass of champagne and watching Klink dither in the clutches of Frau Gertrude Linkmeyer.

"Such lovely music they have here," she said, patting his shoulder firmly.

He jolted and spilled his drink. "Yes. It's perfect for dancing?" The words were addressed hopefully across the table to Hilda.

Hogan bobbed to his feet with a smug smirk and held out his hand. "Hear that, Hilda? I think the grownups are hinting that they want to be alone."

She took his hand with a smile and he led her away without looking back at the crestfallen Klink.

"Grownups?" he heard Klink whine. "He's only a few years younger than me!"

"Don't you ever feel sorry for poor Colonel Klink?" Hilda teased.

Hogan grinned. "All the time. But it doesn't stop me."

He wasn't surprised when Klink called an early end to the evening, making sure that he and Hilda stopped dancing and returned to the table only after Klink had paid the check for them.

"Can we offer you a ride somewhere?" he asked Frau Linkmeyer with insincere politeness.

"_Ja, danke,_ I am returning to Stalag 13 with you," she replied.

Klink exchanged a horrified look with Hogan. "Stalag 13? Hoo-gaan!" The last word was hissed under his breath.

"I will meet my brother there and return with him to Berlin," she announced, and swept out to the car where Schultz was dozing.

Hogan said a hasty goodbye to Hilda and prodded the reluctant kommandant into the car. The trip back to camp was accomplished in stony silence.

He was pleased to see Burkhalter's staff car parked outside Klink's office, with Smith in the driver's seat as though they had just arrived. The agent showed no sign of recognizing him as he passed.

Newkirk slipped around the corner of the building and motioned to him. Hogan unobtrusively stepped out of the lights. "Everything go okay?" he asked in a low voice.

"Perfect," Newkirk assured him. "Kinch and LeBeau just got back and said the lab's totally destroyed. We just put a call through to Burkhalter in Klink's office—it's the brass tellin' 'im what 'appened. 'E'll be ready to chew ol' Klink up and spit 'im out."

"Good work," Hogan replied. "I had them put a couple bottles of champagne and some supper in the back of the car and put it on Klink's bill. You guys have earned it."

"Thanks, Colonel." Newkirk melted back into the shadows.

Klink looked around and saw Hogan casually leaning against the wall. "Back to your barracks, Hogan," he snapped. "You've done enough damage for one night."

"Sure, if you feel like facing Burkhalter by yourself—" Hogan paused for effect. "With Gertrude for support, of course."

"You're coming with me!" Klink grabbed his arm and almost hauled him inside to where Burkhalter waited in the inner office.

"Ah! General Burkhalter!" Klink saluted and then adjusted his monocle. "We're so happy to see you General! To what do we owe this pleasure sir?"

"It is never a pleasure to see you Klink," Burkhalter retorted. "Hello, Gertrude. Hogan, what are you doing here?"

"Hi, General," Hogan grinned impishly at him. "We've been on a date. What brings you here?"

"What?" Burkhalter's face turned redder and his eyes bulged. "Klink! What kind of camp are you running here?"

"An escape-proof one, sir," the kommandant whimpered.

"Hmph. Gertrude, would you wait in the outer office? I have something to say to this _dummkopf_ which you may not wish to hear."

"What _dummkopf_?" she asked. "Albert, you know that I don't like you to talk about Wilhelm like that." Hogan saw Klink visibly cringe, as though weighing the evils of Gertrude against Russians and icicles.

The general swung back to face his helpless colonel. "What does this mean, Klink? You order my car stopped and my driver arrested—do you think I harbour criminals on my staff?"

"B-b-but," Klink stammered.

"Shut up Klink! You call out the troops from the research lab to search for this traitor that the Gestapo have already arrested, leaving the lab unguarded!"

"Herr General, I had orders from General—the Gestapo?"

Burkhalter ignored him. "Not five minutes ago I received a call telling me that saboteurs have blown up the research lab! You had better start learning Russian, Klink! You are going to need it."

"Please, General . . ." Klink moaned helplessly.

"Ah, General Burkhalter, it seems pretty obvious that Colonel Klink isn't entirely to blame for this," Hogan intervened coolly.

"What do you mean?" he snapped, spinning around faster than Hogan thought possible for a man of his plentiful girth.

"Well, he received the orders from someone in Berlin to use the troops if necessary, so he can't be held totally responsible for that. But what I think the Gestapo will focus on—" he wagged his finger sternly for emphasis, "is how they actually found the agent. You did say he was in your car sir?"

The general went from bright red to pasty white. "Berlin would know that I had nothing to do with—maybe I've been hasty in blaming you, Klink."

"Then you won't be leaving, Wilhelm," Gertrude latched hold of his arm and showed her slightly yellowed teeth as she smiled up at him. "I will know exactly where to find you."

It was Klink's turn to pale, and he cowered slightly. "Well, anything's possible," he muttered.

"Excuse me for interrupting," Hogan butted in, figuring he should do something to prevent the addition of Frau Linkmeyer to the camp staff. "General, you wouldn't interfere with the happiness of two people just because you're mad at Colonel Klink, would you?"

"Whose happiness?" Burkhalter demanded.

"Your sister and Colonel Klink, of course. I mean, just because you're angry at Klink for bringing down the wrath of the Gestapo on your head, and he's bungled the lab security, is no reason to deny him a place in your family. Please don't keep him from happiness, sir."

"Don't be too sure about that," the general snapped. "Klink, you will never have a place in my family. Gertrude, you will return with me to Berlin at once!"

He swept out with his sister in tow, leaving Klink sputtering protests behind them. Hogan only waited for the door to bang shut before he poured himself a drink from the decanter on the desk.

"He blames me for everything," Klink moaned. "And it's all your fault, Hogan!"

"My fault!" He savoured the drink, refilled the glass, and poured another for Klink, who took it absentmindedly.

"Yes, your fault! You invited Frau Linkmeyer to dinner, and I had to sit with her while you danced with Hilda all evening."

"So?"

"So someone ordered the most expensive meal on the menu and ate enough for five men, and I had to pay the check!"

Hogan filled his glass a third time, ignoring Klink's raised one. "You think it was Gertrude?"

"Who else?" Klink threw up his hand in disgust. "She's a Burkhalter like her brother and she looks like one."

"Of course. Who else could it be?" Hogan tapped his full glass against the empty one Klink held, swallowed the drink in one gulp, and saluted.


	2. As You Wave Me Goodbye

**_Nazi Germany, 1943_**

**_2200hrs local time _**

The search lights outside the air base appeared to be randomly swinging around the area, but actually had a preset pattern. Although the Nazi guards didn't know it, there was one corner of the base where the lights never passed.

And that corner was where Sgt. James Kinchloe, USAAC, and Cpl. Peter Newkirk, RAF, were crouched, binoculars pressed to their eyes.

"Two, four, six . . . eight planes, hidden under camouflage nets," Kinch reported. "There's a lot of empty space though. It looks like this is just the beginning."

"A German air base right on our front doorstep," Newkirk lowered his binoculars and shook his head. "Colonel Hogan's not gonna be 'appy about this."

"I don't think he'll be calling for an Allied air strike anytime soon," Kinch agreed. "Let's get out of here and back to camp."

Gathering their surveillance gear, they slipped back into the woods and out of sight as quietly as they had arrived.

* * *

The tall, leather-jacket-clad form of Col. Robert Hogan was pacing back and forth between his office door, the stove, and back again. "What's keeping those two? They were due back an hour ago!"

"Maybe they took longer than they expected to get to that base and back," LeBeau suggested for the third time that night, dealing out another hand of solitaire onto the table and muttering something under his breath in French. Hogan didn't want to ask for a translation.

TSgt. Andrew J. Carter looked up from his whittling. "Maybe a patrol spotted them," he offered gloomily.

"Thanks, Carter. You're a big help," LeBeau retorted. "Now shut up."

"Well, it's possible," Carter defended. "After all, there's been a lot of extra patrol activity, and the Germans are gonna be even more careful with that new installation, whatever it is. I mean, we don't know what it is, but they do, so they're gonna be even more concerned about it than we are, if that's possible."

He rambled on in the background, earning a disgusted look from Hogan, but his words were abruptly cut off by the rattling of the tunnel opening. Everyone rushed over to the bunk.

"What took you so long?" Hogan demanded. His tone was harsh, but none of the men minded because they knew that he was concerned for their safety.

Kinch's head appeared in the empty space where the bunk mattress usually sat. "Sorry we're late, Colonel. We had to avoid a patrol."

"Well, you missed a roll call. We had to bring those two downed pilots up from the tunnel to take your places. What did you find out?"

LeBeau handed mugs of coffee to the two men as they sat down at the table. "Well, it's definitely an air base. There's only eight planes," Newkirk reported. "But there's enough security for a whole squadron."

"There's searchlights around the perimeter wire, guards at the gates, and a patrol that makes a fifteen-minute circuit around the base," Kinch added.

"Sounds like big trouble," LeBeau shook his head gloomily.

"Well, when we're in trouble I always know who to go to," Hogan declared. "First thing in the morning I'll find out what Klink knows about all this."

* * *

The best time for disturbing Kommandant Wilhelm Klink was in the morning, just after he started going through the mounds of paperwork that always seemed to cover his desk. Hogan liked to wait until Klink was absorbed enough in his work that a visit would disturb him, but not long enough that the interruption would be a welcome break.

Whistling the melody of Jerry Fielding's Heroes March and composing a nicely outrageous request to distract Klink from his real intent, he strode confidently across the compound, up the stairs, and into the outer office. He tossed a cheery "Good morning!" in Hilda's direction and was bowling into Klink's office before she could stop him.

"Fraulein Hilda, I'm very busy and I don't want to be interrupted," Klink snapped without raising his head. "And especially not by Colonel Hogan, is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear, sir," Hogan replied.

"Good. Now—Hogan!" His head snapped up and he glared at the intruder.

"Good morning, Colonel. Isn't it a lovely morning—sun shining on the machine gun turrets, reflecting off the barbed wire. Doesn't it make you feel happy, sir?"

Klink scowled and went back to his paperwork. "It was a lovely morning until you disturbed me. Now would you please go away?"

"I have something to discuss with you, Colonel," Hogan protested. "According to the Geneva Convention, as senior P.O.W. officer I'm entitled to discuss my concerns with the camp kommandant."

"Very well, what is it?" Klink didn't look up.

"Well, I feel that my men aren't getting sufficient exercise with their current routine." Hogan wandered over to the decanter on the shelf, poured himself a drink, and sniffed it suspiciously. "Sergeant Carter suggested that some climbing exercises might be beneficial."

"Climbing exercises," Klink mumbled absently, scribbling something across a sheet of paper.

Hogan swallowed the drink he held and helped himself to another. "We thought that if we attached some knotted ropes to the corners of the guard towers, then we could climb up and down the ropes. After we got good at that, we'd string them from building to building and start a trapeze club. Now—"

"Climb the guard towers?" Klink shouted in horror as his brain caught up with his ears. "Don't be ridiculous! That would be—"

His words were cut off as the door slammed open and a short, balding man in a black Gestapo uniform marched into the office and straight over to Klink's desk.

"Major Hochstetter? What are you doing here?" the kommandant complained.

"Klink, I am taking over your camp immediately. I need to use it as a base," he declared abruptly. "I am in charge of security for the new secret air base near here and I want somewhere to work from."

"Major Hochstetter, is it necessary to use Stalag 13?" Klink whined. "Surely it would be more convenient for you to be stationed at the—at the . . ."

Major Hochstetter slammed his fist down on the desk and made the papers jump. "I said, I will work from Stalag 13," he snarled between clenched teeth. "We do not want to draw any extra attention to the new air base. What is going on there is _top secret_!"

"What's so top secret about a new air base? We build them all the time," Klink shrugged. "The Allies bomb them, and we build more. What's so . . . different about . . . this one?" The words faded into a whimper

"Since you don't seem to understand anything, Klink, I will tell you," Hochstetter growled. "The planes that we are stocking this base with are captured Allied planes, Spitfires. The Allied fliers would never expect an attack from their own aircraft. They could win us the war—if they remain a secret. Now do you understand why it's such a big secret? You are not to tell a soul!" He pounded the desk again for emphasis.

"If it's such a big secret, then do you think it wise to mention it to Colonel Hogan?" Klink sounded as smug as it was possible for a terrified man to be.

"Hogan? Who is telling it to Colonel Hogan?" Major Hochstetter snapped.

"You did, just now," Hogan spoke up from his casual position leaning against the filing cabinet in the corner.

The Gestapo agent swung around, face nearly purple with rage. "What is this man doing here?" he shrieked.

"You were telling me some secrets about a German Spitfire squadron," Hogan reminded comfortably. "Care for a drink? Colonel Klink's got the good stuff."

"Klink, what is this man doing here?" Hochstetter repeated at full volume.

The kommandant cowered visibly. "He-he-he was asking permission for a trapeze club, Major."

"A trapeze club? What kind of prisoner of war camp has a trapeze club? You are a disgrace to your uniform, Klink! Get rid of him at once!"

"Schultz!" Klink shouted, and the enormous guard appeared almost immediately. "Take Colonel Hogan back to his barracks!"

"_Ja wohl, Herr Kommandant_." Schultz cast a reproachful look in Hogan's direction and ushered him out of the office.

Always alert, his men had pulled out the coffeepot as soon as they saw the Gestapo enter the camp, and he didn't need to fill them in on what he'd heard. "Now we know what that base is for."

"Sounds like big trouble to me, Colonel," Kinch spoke up.

"Big trouble, yes, but also big trouble for the Germans if there's something that we can do there," Hogan replied.

"I like it already, sir." Newkirk rubbed his hands together. "What 'ave you got in mind?"

"Nothing yet. We also need to figure a way to get those two fliers out of here and back to England, and with Hochstetter prowling around it's not going to be easy. LeBeau, you and Newkirk find out if Schultz knows anything about it what's going on. Kinch, radio London and ask if they have any information about the base."

As his men scattered, he sat down on his creaking wooden bunk to contemplate the problem.

* * *

Newkirk and LeBeau were marching across the compound, one on each side of the hefty figure of Sgt. Schultz. "How's the biggest Kraut of the war, Schultzie?" Newkirk asked nonchalantly.

Schultz sent him a hurt look. "That's not nice, Englander. I'm not nearly as fat as Reichsmarshall Goring."

"Of course you are," LeBeau teased. "In fact, I think you're a lot like him."

"Well . . ." Schultz puffed out his chest. "I would say that as a military strategist, concerning matters of the air war—of course, Herr Reichsmarshall Goring has slightly more influence in Berlin than me—"

"But you know a few things about the air war yourself, don't you?" Newkirk offered the guard an English cigarette and lit it for him.

"I'll bet he even knows about the secret air base a few miles from here," LeBeau addressed the casual remark across Schultz's stomach to his fellow interrogator.

"Ha! Do you think that they would have a secret air base without telling me about it?" the guard boasted. "Major Hochstetter is in charge of security, and they are going to use it for . . . flying . . . grrrr! I know nothing, nothing!"

"Come on, you can't stop there," Newkirk protested. "You were just gettin' to the excitin' part!"

"I see nothing, I know nothing!" Schultz repeated.

"It's okay, Newkirk. I see Major Hochstetter is over there," LeBeau patted the guard's shoulder. "I'll just go and ask him what Schultz meant about flying going on at a secret air base." He started across the camp yard toward the Gestapo agent's car.

"Wait . . . wait, wait," Schultz sighed in defeat. "There are several captured Allied aircraft that we have managed to repair. They are being stored at the air base out of reach of Allied attack until pilots can be found who know how to fly them. As soon as the pilots are trained they will be stationed closer to enemy lines and will fly missions against the Allies."

"You sure got some interestin' information stored away in that nothin' of yours," Newkirk drawled. He distracted Schultz with another cigarette while LeBeau hurried away to report to Colonel Hogan.

* * *

The colonel hadn't come up with any bright ideas while sprawled on his bunk, and he listened thoughtfully to LeBeau's account.

"Sir, may I suggest a nice package of dynamite with a short-time fuse attached to the fuel tank of each plane?" Carter offered hopefully.

"Maybe." Hogan stood and began to pace around the office. "Still, we've got those fliers to get out, and it seems reasonable to do both jobs at once. I'm gonna go talk to those guys."

He headed down the tunnel to the radio room, where Kinch was on the radio to the top brass in London. In the next tunnel over, the two pilots were involved in a hushed discussion about a game of rugger.

"Either of you guys ever fly a Spitfire?" he interrupted without hesitation.

In true British fashion, they both stood and saluted him before they replied. "I took one for a bit of a whirl last month," replied the lanky Fl/Lt. Thomas. "Quite different from a bomber, but a delightful little plane."

"Think you could fly one home?" Hogan asked. "If we could arrange for the flak batteries to leave you alone, that is."

They just stared at him.

"Well, come on," he said impatiently. "Could you fly a Spitfire home or not?"

"Colonel . . . where would you find Spitfires in the middle of Germany?" the shorter pilot asked blankly.

"Anderson, do I ask you where you'd find a ball for a game of rugger?" Hogan retorted. "The Jerries will supply the planes if we supply the pilots. Now for the last time, can you fly a Spitfire, or would you rather walk home?"

"I think I could sir, if there wasn't too much trouble from the Krauts along the way," Thomas nodded. "They don't have a long range, though, so it would be a bit of a stretch."

"We'll make sure your fuel tanks are full for the trip." Hogan looked at the other pilot. "Anderson?"

"Sorry, Colonel." Anderson shook his head. "I've never had the chance."

"That's okay. Over the next few days Lieutenant Thomas here is going to teach you everything you need to know—or at least, everything he knows, okay? Any questions? Good." He turned to leave before they could ask him anything.

"Colonel?" Thomas stopped him. "What happens now?"

"I'm on my way to talk the Jerries into loaning us one of _our_ planes," Hogan bantered, and climbed back up the tunnel into the barracks.

* * *

A one-sided storm was raging when Hogan stepped back into Klink's outer office. In a less-than-forceful whine, Colonel Klink was protesting against Major Hochstetter's screamed insistence that Klink had caused a security leak.

"You are a danger to the entire war effort, Klink! I do not trust Colonel Hogan! We must move the planes at once!" The words were clear even through the closed door.

Hogan motioned for Hilda to keep quiet and then moved a chair so that he was seated right beside the door to the inner office and partially behind the desk. With his face hidden by a newspaper that he grabbed at random from a stack on Hilda's desk, he listened to the quarrel taking shape.

"But where will you move the planes to?" Klink sounded almost as though he was arguing. "This whole affair is a Luftwaffe matter, so you, Major Hochstetter," he drew out the title sarcastically, "are interfering in . . . in . . . " Evidently his fear of the Gestapo got the better of his personal dislike for the major.

"The Gestapo interferes where it likes!" Hochstetter shrieked. "Give me your phone. I am calling Berlin at once!"

Hogan reached over and tapped Hilda's arm, pointed to the phone, and held his finger to his lips. Obediently she picked up the extension and held her hand over the mouthpiece to listen in. He leaned close but could only catch a few words of the conversation.

Hilda hung up the phone as a clear "_Heil Hitler_" floated out of the office. "Berlin has told Major Hochstetter that they are sending two pilots who can fly the Allied planes. They will arrive by tomorrow night and Major Hochstetter will take them to the air base. Antiaircraft batteries are warned not to fire at the planes."

"Tomorrow night." Hogan frowned thoughtfully at the newspaper. "Okay, thanks, Hilda. I'll send the coffee over later."

* * *

Convincing his men to hijack a Gestapo truck was the easy part. The hard part was talking the two British pilots into dressing in Luftwaffe uniforms and walking boldly into a secret German air base.

"You'll have Carter with you, in a captain's uniform. He'll take care of anyone who causes you trouble."

"Sure, I'll be there—" Carter's jaw dropped. "Me, Colonel Hogan? Why will I be there?"

Hogan rolled his eyes. "Because you're gonna blow the place up after they leave. You don't want to leave six Spitfires sitting there for the Krauts to fool around with, do you?"

"Cheer up, Carter," Newkirk consoled. "At least you can die as a rankin' captain, even if it is as a Kraut."

Carter turned on his buddy. "Thanks, Newkirk! It won't be you out there facing those Gestapo guards."

"Actually, it will," Hogan intervened before a quarrel could start. "Newkirk, you and LeBeau will be waiting outside the base with the explosives and detonators. While the guards are distracted by Carter and the pilots, you two rig those planes to blow."

"Lovely," Newkirk grimaced.

"Kinch." Hogan addressed his radio operator. "This is important. You're going to monitor the phones and the radio traffic. Notify London that the planes coming over the Channel are friendly—we don't want our friends here shot down by their own side."

"Thanks awfully for that," Anderson quipped wryly, evidently resigned to his method of escape.

"And," Hogan continued. "Don't let Major Hochstetter interfere. I'll try and keep him busy in Klink's office, but if he sounds like he's going to leave, get on the phone and keep him busy."

"Will do," Kinch nodded.

* * *

Hogan and Kinch were on the radio to London when Carter stuck his head down the tunnel and hollered, "Colonel Hogan? Major Hochstetter's in Klink's office! He's trying to turn on the bug to your office!"

Hogan hustled for the ladder without ending his sentence to the London authorities, leaving Kinch to finish explaining what they were trying to do. "Activate the bug," he ordered as he climbed.

"We already did," Carter assured. "Newkirk and LeBeau are pretending to argue about which is stupider, the SS or the Gestapo."

"Good. Warn the pilots we're moving out earlier than planned." Hogan pushed his office door open.

"Have you seen those silly uniforms the SS wear?" LeBeau insisted in the direction of Klink's 'hidden' microphone in the light shade.

"I say it's the Gestapo," Newkirk countered. "You have to be pretty well off in the head to follow a bloke that wears lil' glasses like that Himmler."

"I agree with Newkirk," Hogan told the bug. "After all, it's the Gestapo who are in charge of the secret air base."

"How does that make them more stupid?" LeBeau protested, his back to Hogan as he stretched up to address the microphone.

Hogan rounded his words exaggeratedly to make sure Hochstetter heard clearly. "Because they'll need pilots to fly those planes, and not just any old Messerschmitt junkyard pilot will do. The Spitfire is refined, delicate."

"Aristocratic," Newkirk put in with relish, making a V sign with his fingers.

"Exactly! Where will the Krauts find someone who can handle the planes? They'll need defectors, obviously," Hogan nodded for emphasis.

"What else would you expect of an Englishman," the small Frenchman sneered, and ducked a swat from Newkirk's hand.

"Now I have a few theories about those defectors. They'll have to be airmen—come a little closer, fellas. I don't want to spread this around camp . . ." Hogan covered the microphone with his thumb and kept his voice low. "London's orders are to destroy those planes at all costs. They don't want Jerry fooling around with them."

There was a knock on the door, and he released the bug. By the time Schultz's bulk had pressed through the door, the three were lounging innocently around the office. "Colonel Hogan, Major Hochstetter wants to talk to you in the kommandant's office immediately." He drew out the last word.

"Sure, Schultz. Get going, fellas." Hogan adjusted his cap and prepared to follow the huge guard.

"Wait—wait," the sergeant protested. "You tell them to get going. Go where? There is not going to be any monkey business?"

"I just meant get going out of my office," the colonel explained glibly as he shepherded Schultz out of the barracks. "After all, I can't have just everyone lounging around in an officer's quarters."

"Is that the truth?" Schultz asked with the wariness of long experience.

"No it's not," Hogan said honestly. "I was sending them on a mission to blow up the secret air base that Major Hochstetter told me about."

"Ha ha ha ha! Jolly joker," the guard mumbled mockingly, and gestured for his prisoner to precede him into the outer office.

* * *

The German truck rattled and clattered as it entered the air base. One look at Carter's uniform, lavishly decorated with braid and medals, and the guard at the gate waved them straight in. A wiry man in a dark greatcoat came marching out of the nearest guard shack, his arrogant stride immediately marking him as Gestapo.

The truck jolted to a stop, and Fl/Lt. Thomas rolled down the driver's window. "We are the defected British pilots sent to move the Spitfire aeroplanes," he announced in crisp English.

The Gestapo agent peered into the truck, staring pointedly at Carter, who was looking straight ahead with as bored an expression as he could muster. "Only one man, to escort two prisoners?" he snapped.

"Begging your pardon, we'd be mightily insulted at the thought that we had to be forced into this," Thomas continued the ruse. "Where are the planes, man?"

The German waved three more men out of the guard shack, and they began to remove the camouflage nets from the Spitfires as the pilots followed Carter across the airstrip. Out of the corner of his eye Carter saw Newkirk's grease-darkened face at the far corner of the compound, and he tapped the nearest guard on the shoulder.

"What is it?" the Gestapo agent snapped, turning away from the fence. Carter silently pointed to the shack, where a small amount of litter disturbed the sparse appearance of the base.

"What's the matter? Don't you talk? What do you want?" The guard raised his voice with each question, drawing the attention of the other guards.

"Look, mates, I wouldn't try and get him to talk if I were you," Anderson confided as he made the final check to his parachute.

"And why not?" All four Gestapo agents now had their backs to the planes, and Newkirk and LeBeau stayed low as they scurried over to the camouflage nets.

"In all the time I've been around this bloke, I've only heard him say two things to Gestapo agents like you fellows. One is, "Heil Hitler" and the other is, "Transfer this man to the Eastern Front." Never so much as a please or thank you." Anderson hoisted himself into the uncovered Spitfire. "Cheerio, here I go on my way!" His Gracie Fields imitation was two octaves and a semitone lower than the original.

* * *

LeBeau slipped under each net to attach the explosives to the fuel tanks of the planes, trying to jiggle the net as little as possible. There was a sudden roar as the pilots started their engines, and he fumbled with the timer.

"Can't you go any faster?" Newkirk hissed from the next net.

"I'm finished," LeBeau retorted, sliding back out as the clock began to tick.

As Thomas and Anderson taxied down the runway, the four Germans kept their eyes warily on Carter, who by this time had discovered a misplaced spanner and was scowling ferociously at a hapless guard. He waited until the stealthy figures of his friends had moved back through the fence and vanished into the woods, then nodded once to the men held prisoner by his glare, saluted, and turned for the truck. It took all his control not to hurry as he mentally counted down the minutes on the explosive timers.

He drove several hundred yards down the road and stopped to pick up Newkirk and LeBeau. "Never thought I'd see the day when German soldiers would wave a friendly goodbye to British Spitfires flyin' across Krautland," Newkirk gloated.

* * *

"Colonel Hogan, may I remind you that the Gestapo has ways of extracting information which can be extremely unpleasant?" Major Hochstetter had given up pacing around the office and was standing over Hogan's slouching figure. Klink still occupied his desk chair, but he was resting his head in his hands without speaking. "Why do you look at your watch so often?"

Hogan pulled down his jacket sleeve with a casual air that betrayed none of his concern at how late it was. "Oh, I'm keeping track of how long you two can talk without repeating yourselves. You're way ahead of Colonel Klink, but of course you keep interrupting him, so he doesn't get to talk for very long at a time."

"Bah!" The major was at full volume.

The distant throaty voice of Rolls-Merlin engines caught Hogan's ears and he hid his sigh of relief. Seconds later there was a deep rolling boom.

"Did the weatherman forecast thunder for tonight?" Hogan queried innocently.

The phone on the desk began to ring, and Col. Klink reached for it, but his hand was shoved away by Major Hochstetter. "Major Hochstetter, heil Hitler! Corporal Bietmann? Did the planes . . . what? _Nein_ . . . explosion? Destroyed? Did the pilots take off in time? . . . _Ja, sehr gut . . . ja_, I am on my way." He slammed the phone down. "The base reports that six of the Allied planes were destroyed on the ground by mysterious explosions. I am on my way to investigate at once." As he gathered his gloves, he sneered down at Hogan. "For your information, Colonel Hogan, the pilots went directly to the base and were able to take off in two of the planes before the explosions. So we still have two of your Spitfires!" Hochstetter spat the last word through clenched teeth.

Hogan tsk'ed disapprovingly. "If that's how careless you are, it's no wonder the Allies don't want to share their planes with you," he said in the tone of voice one uses to address a squabbling six-year-old. "You better behave, or you'll miss your turn."

"Bah!" Hochstetter screamed, and stormed out.

"I can't stand that man!" Klink sniffed, pulling himself up straight in his seat. "How could the planes have exploded like that?"

"It's very simple," Hogan explained kindly. "I think that the two pilots weren't real defectors, but fliers who saw an opportunity to get home by stealing planes. Hochstetter fell for their story, and the rest is easy. They probably strafed the airfield on their way out." He just hoped that the real German pilots didn't show up until the planes were well gone out of enemy airspace.

"And Major Hochstetter takes the blame!" Klink gloated. "Serves him right! He'll probably be called back to Berlin for questioning! I should register an official complaint against him for trying to involve Stalag 13 in his failure."

"Of course, the Luftwaffe didn't stop them either," Hogan reminded. "Berlin may want to know what other defences were available in the area. I wouldn't draw attention to myself if I were you, sir."

Deflated, Klink slumped back into the chair as Hogan saluted.

* * *

A/N: There is one historical inaccuracy with this story when looked at from a WWII perspective, but since it's completely accurate to the Hogan's Heroes show I included it. Hope y'all don't mind!

P.S. Special thanks to the kind folks who have posted reviews and made suggestions. I've tidied up the previous chapter and read through this one several times so hopefully there are no more bloopers. Thanks again!


	3. A Fledermaus Is Coming

Disclaimer: I don't own the Heroes but they've graciously appeared in my story anyway. The character of Major Nicholas is entirely my own invention. He is not meant to resemble any particular person and no disrespect to anyone, living or dead, is intended in my portrayal of him.

* * *

**_Nazi Germany, 1943._**

**_2100 hours local time._**

Feet shuffled. Caps were adjusted. No one stood at attention. Prisoners talked under their breath.

Wilhelm Klink, Luftwaffe Colonel and Kommandant of Stalag 13, stood impatiently on the front steps of his office building.

Sergeant Schultz, barracks guard, peered apprehensively at his clipboard, hoping that all would be found present and accounted for but never confident that it would happen.

And Colonel Hogan, US Army Air Corps, senior P.O.W. officer, watched the proceedings with an indulgent eye that took in everything that went on around him.

It was a typical roll call.

In spite of the fact that a baby-faced bombardier named Greggs occupied Olsen's usual place, and instead of Mills stood a lanky, blond-haired nose gunner, Sgt. Schultz triumphantly announced that all prisoners were present.

"Thank you, Sergeant." Klink descended the steps, adjusted his riding crop under his arm, and drew himself up facing Colonel Hogan. "Prisoners of the Third Reich!"

"Is he talking to us or to them?" LeBeau pointed to the left, where all of Klink's guards were lined up to hear the address.

Klink looked horrified. "Silence! The brave fighting men of Germany serve their country out of love for Fuhrer and Fatherland! As I was saying—"

"What about the cowardly ones?" someone called from the back row.

"I will not be interrupted! The next man who speaks will spend three days in the cooler!" Klink insisted. "Schultz, why don't you control these men?"

"_Ja wohl Herr Kommandant_!" Schultz saluted.

"Oops, that's three days solitary, Schultz," Colonel Hogan said sympathetically. "You were the next man to speak."

The kommandant stamped his foot and decided to continue with his speech. "It has come to the attention of headquarters in Berlin that a serious issue is facing our prison camps."

"They finally found out about the sawdust in the bread," Newkirk hollered.

"Maybe it's the moldy potatoes," Carter guessed.

"The issue I speak of is not one of menu," Klink tried to sound sarcastic and almost succeeded. "Headquarters informs me that in certain of our camps, prisoners are attempting to bribe those guarding them in for extra rations and even to look the other way during escape attempts."

"You can't blame us if we're willing to pay your guys better than you do," Hogan bantered.

"Silence! Prisoners and guards are strictly forbidden to engage in fraternization, and any attempt by prisoners to gain sympathy will meet with severe punishment. This is the toughest P.O.W. camp in all of Germany, and let me warn you that all regulations will be strictly enforced!"

Schultz shifted uneasily as Klink continued. "I repeat, fraternization is absolutely forbidden! Remember that! Diiiisss-missed!"

The formation broke up and prisoners headed back to their beds. As soon as the door of barracks 2 shut behind them, Hogan and his men rushed over to the tunnel entrance concealed in Kinch's bunk. "Carter, Newkirk, bring those guys in," Hogan ordered. "LeBeau, diversion for Schultz. Kinch, tell the sub that we were held up getting the escapees from Stalag 5 into camp and we don't know when we'll be able to send them out."

The men scattered to do his bidding. LeBeau produced a plate and began to arrange pieces of leftover strudel on it as the others vanished down the bunk. It didn't take very long for the enormous sergeant to appear.

"How is the strudel situation tonight?" His round face lit up when he saw the plate. "And where are the other men who are supposed to be in this barracks?"

"Didn't you hear Klink talking about fraternization?" LeBeau waved the dessert under his nose. "You don't really want to know where they are, do you, Schultzie?"

Schultz heaved a sigh and took the plate. "What the big shot doesn't know about won't hurt . . . me."

* * *

"Colonel Hogan?" The escapee from Stalag 5 was dressed in a ragged RAF uniform from which the sleeve chevrons had long since torn away. A worried frown creased his face.

"Something wrong, Redding?" Hogan left Carter and Newkirk in charge of outfitting the escapers and moved down the tunnel to Carter's lab. "We can talk in here."

"It's about a friend of mine in Stalag 5," Redding began. "He was supposed to come on this escape attempt, but they took his place away and told me to come instead. He's been accused of turning sides."

"And you think he hasn't," Hogan filled in.

Redding looked horrified. "No sir! Phil wouldn't do a thing like that! He flew fighters from the beginning, he's been decorated more than once, when he arrived in camp it was new and everyone taking things very hard—singlehandedly he transformed morale, sir. No, Phil Bentrey would never go Kraut."

"Why the suspicion, then?" Carter ducked between them to grab something off his lab table, and Hogan moved hastily aside when he saw that it was a detonator.

"He's been spending a lot of time with one of the guards, sharing rations and things, getting stuff in exchange. Then last week the guard—his name's Linkenfueller—took Phil into the guard office to show him the new seismograph equipment for detecing tunnels. Phil swears that it was just to try and impress him, and to warn him not to escape, but the rest of the guys say that he's turned."

"What does the senior P.O.W officer have to say? Shouldn't he be the one to investigate?" Hogan asked.

Redding shook his head. "Major Nicholas is doing a thirty-day stint in the cooler. He doesn't approve of Phil, anyway, because Phil wants to organize Stalag 5 into a coordinated harassment of the enemy and information supply to the Allies."

"Hey, no fair!" Carter exclaimed. "We were here first, you know!"

"The worst of it is, just after Major Nicholas went into solitary and Linkenfueller showed Phil the equipment, some of the guys held a trial, convicted Phil, and sentenced him to execution by hanging."

"That's right friendly of them," Newkirk remarked from further down the tunnel.

"The execution was delayed for two weeks because they haven't finished the rope, but as soon as it's done they say they'll set up a gallows outside the kommandant's office." Redding looked pleadingly at Hogan. "Is there anything you can do to help him, sir?"

"We'll see what we can do," Hogan assured him. "Meanwhile you go grab some sack time."

* * *

It wasn't a happy group that gathered in Col. Hogan's office. They were used to rescuing people from the Nazis, but to rescue them from their own side was another matter.

"I got in touch with London," Kinch held a sheet of blue paper. "Redding's story checks out and London's really not happy about the idea of Bentrey being executed by his own side."

"Who do those boys in Stalag 5 think they are anyway?" Newkirk groused. "I mean, hangin' people is a bit drastic!"

"No kidding," LeBeau retorted. "Only an Englishman would do such a thing to a fellow countryman."

"Yeah? I've heard you say plenty of things about what you'd do to any Frenchman who collaborated," Newkirk shot back.

"Slit his throat, maybe. That would be what he deserved! But to hang—" he shook his head in disgust.

"Okay, hold it," Hogan intervened. "What we need here is a plan to save Bentrey's neck, and get him out of Stalag 5 and back to England before he can go into competition with us here and possibly draw Gestapo attention. Any ideas?"

"Could you talk Klink into requesting some new prisoners?" Newkirk suggested.

"How could we be sure we got the right ones? To ask for a specific man would be bound to draw attention," Hogan countered.

Kinch shoved his hands into his pockets. "Maybe I could phone Stalag 5—pretending to be from the Gestapo—and order his transfer on suspicion of spying. The underground could pick him up and send him to England."

Hogan considered the idea. "Maybe. It might work."

"_Guten Tag_," Carter cleared his throat, then steepled his fingers in front of his nose and spoke in a finicky, simpering voice. "I am General Die Fledermaus of the General Staff, and I demand to see the prisoner Bentrey at once."

"Hey, that's great!" Newkirk and LeBeau applauded while Hogan grinned.

"Andrew." Kinch laid a kind hand on his buddy's shoulder. "Do you know what a Fledermaus is?"

"A general?" Carter asked in his normal voice with a shrug of his shoulders.

"No, it means bat. It's also the name of an opera that Strauss wrote. No German parent in their right mind would name their kid Fledermaus," Kinch explained. "It's a great idea, but pick another name, will you?"

"How do you know so much about German opera?" Hogan asked, eyeing his second-in-command curiously.

Kinch pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. "Picked it up here and there."

"We could slip away from a work detail if we had a vehicle and uniforms waiting in the woods." The colonel abandoned interest in the opera to plot their caper. "The good general here, whatever his name is, keeps the Krauts busy with—" he snapped his fingers, "Klink's fraternization lecture while we sneak Bentrey into the car."

"Sounds dangerous to me," Carter offered.

Hogan looked around at his men. "Sure it's dangerous. Out of camp during daylight hours, sneaking away from a work detail, dressing in Kraut uniforms and going into a prison camp—one that's not run by an idiot like our dear Colonel Klink—if anyone doesn't want to volunteer for this, now's the time to say so." He paused to let his words sink in. "On the other hand, if we don't do anything, there's a young guy in Stalag 5 who's served his country, wants to keep fighting the war even though he's locked up, and his own guys want to kill him for it."

"I'm in," LeBeau said immediately, and the others murmured agreement.

"You're a great bunch of guys," Hogan said sincerely, and dismissed them all to prepare.

* * *

It was a simple matter to arrange a work detail. All Hogan had to do was barge into Klink's office and announce that the latest group of new prisoners had complained about the condition of the local roads. "Of course, I'm sure that you'll have your guards fix it immediately, but I just wanted to bring it to your attention."

"Oh, that's a good joke," Klink mocked. "My guards to repair the roads? I'm sure you would like to stand there and supervise them!"

"Hey, speaking of jokes, have you heard the one about the little corporal who thinks Germany's winning the war?" Hogan grinned cheerfully at him.

"Never mind the jokes, Hogan! Your men will repair the road starting tomorrow, and my men will supervise. And I will tell Sergeant Schultz that if there is any attempt at an escape, he will shoot to kill. Dismissed!"

* * *

With Luftwaffe uniforms and a car secreted in the woods, the prisoners headed out of camp under the extremely heavy guard of Schultz and his rifle. Not wanting to get themselves hot and dirty, they didn't waste any time in making their break.

"Hey, Schultz, could you give me a hand here for a second while the others do the next pothole?" Kinch requested.

Schultz sighed but moved toward him, and the other prisoners vanished into the woods.

They were admitted without question into Stalag 5, and Hogan parked the car in front of the kommandant's office as a short, balding man with colonel's insignia came out and shaded his eyes. Getting into his role, Carter waited for Hogan to open the door for him before he climbed out.

"Guten tag, general. I am Colonel Dietermann, kommandant of Stalag 5. How may I serve you?"

Carter looked down his nose. "I am General Die Fledermaus of the General Staff, visiting all of the Luft Stalags in the area with a special message from Field Marshal Goering."

Hogan silently groaned at Carter's slip and hoped that no one else would notice it.

"You will have all of your personnel assembled to hear the address—immediately!" Carter snapped, shaking the lash of the riding crop in his hand.

"Immediately, right away, General!" Dietermann saluted and turned to give an order to the sergeant at his side.

"My men will inspect your camp while I give the address," Carter continued. "They will make note of anything that is out of place and deliver the report to Goering in Berlin. Schnell!"

While 'General Fledermaus' watched the prison guards assemble in the yard, Hogan, Newkirk and LeBeau split up to search the camp. Most of the prisoners had gathered to watch what was going on, and the fake Germans scrutinised each face closely.

"Which one of you is the prisoner Bentrey?" Newkirk inquired in harsh, German-accented English.

The prisoners looked at each other and shuffled their feet. Finally a short American corporal spoke up. "Barracks 4." He added some insults under his breath that Newkirk pretended not to hear.

"And where is Barracks 4?" LeBeau asked, approaching suddenly. The same corporal pointed to the next building over.

There was only one man in the barracks, seated on a lower bunk with his head in his hands. "Phil Bentrey?" LeBeau checked.

"That's me." Bentrey lifted his head, scowling when he saw the uniforms. "Look, I'm not one of you, and I keep telling everyone that! So leave me alone!"

"You don't know how pleased we are to hear that, mate," Newkirk said, thick Cockney replacing his German.

Confusion covered the face of the prisoner. "Who are you?"

"Redding sent us. We heard you were in a little trouble here and couldn't come on their escape, and it seemed a shame for you to miss out." LeBeau reached into the knapsack he carried and produced a Luftwaffe captain's uniform. "Put that on and let's get you into the car."

"But the guys . . . if they see me dressed like this they'll think they were right about me," Bentrey protested.

"The guv'nor's headin' over to the cooler for a wee chat with your senior officer," Newkirk reassured him. "He'll make sure everything gets straightened out. Now you just get dressed like a good lad, and stick this mustache on, and you'll be out of here in a jiffy."

* * *

Hogan headed to the cooler, where Redding had said the senior P.O.W. officer was being held, and hastily sent the guard at the door over to listen to Carter's speech. Snatches of the ranting drifted over to him— " . . . if I ever hear that you have been coddling prisoners, you will coddle them in a colder climate . . . express orders of our Fuehrer . . . "—as he stepped inside and stripped off his Luftwaffe jacket to reveal his American uniform shirt.

Major Nicholas was the only prisoner in the solitary confinement cells, and he looked up with a sullen expression on his face when Hogan swung his door open. He was a tall, gaunt British officer with graying hair and dull gray eyes, wrapped in a heavy greatcoat. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"I'm Colonel Hogan, United States Army Air Corps, and senior officer at Luft Stalag 13," Hogan returned the major's salute. "I'm here to talk to you about Phil Bentrey."

"What about him?"

"Did you know that his fellow prisoners accused him of being a traitor and are planning to hang him?"

"I didn't know, but if he's gone Kraut he deserves whatever comes to him." Nicholas scowled. "Bentrey's been a lot of trouble. He's decided that he can still be of use to the war effort even without escaping, and he wants to set up communication codes with London to send them information on the Jerries."

"Well, I don't want you guys here at Stalag 5 mixed up in anything connected with spying," Hogan said sternly. "This is a prisoner of war camp, and if any of you got caught spying it could have serious consequences—for more than just you."

"What do you know? Didn't you say you were from Stalag 13? Isn't that the place that's never had a successful escape?"

"What I'm interested in now is Bentrey. Do you understand how something like this execution business could get out of hand? Captivity is hard enough on the men without adding vigilante justice to it. Got that, Major Nicholas?"

"I hear you," Nicholas grunted. "Who are you to tell me how to do my job?"

Hogan exercised his eagles. "I'm a colonel, talking to a major about how to do his job. We're taking Bentrey out of here, but I want you to make sure that all the prisoners know it's not because he's a traitor. We're doing this to save his life. Understand?"

"I understand . . . sir." Major Nicholas pulled the coat tighter around himself, but he met Hogan's eyes squarely.

"Pretty lousy accommodations here." Hogan turned friendly now that he'd gotten his point across. "This might warm you up a little bit. Here." He pulled a bar of chocolate from his pocket. "Enjoy."

"Thanks for the chocolate." Nicholas sounded less gruff.

Hogan pulled the cell door shut and shrugged back into his German jacket. When he stepped outside he saw Newkirk and LeBeau at the car along with a Luftwaffe captain who fitted Redding's description of his friend Bentrey.

" . . . fraternizing with the prisoners is absolutely verboten!" Carter shrieked, stomping back and forth in front of the rows of German soldiers. He paused to flick Dietermann on the shoulder with his riding crop. "You are especially responsible as kommandant to see that this sort of thing does not happen! I, General Fledermaus, have ordered!"

Hogan marched over to him and was nearly struck with the crop as the 'general' spun around. "Excuse me, General, but we have other appointments," he reminded.

"We do?" Carter peered at him.

"Yes, you also have to address Colonel Klink and his staff at Luft Stalag 13," Hogan emphasized. "Der Fuehrer's orders, sir. You wouldn't want to disappoint him."

"No no, naturally we cannot disappoint der Fuehrer," Carter's attitude changed in an instant from threatening to simpering. "We must be going, Dietermann. Awfully nice talking to you, pal!"

No one seemed to notice that five officers instead of four were crowded into the car as they drove away, but Bentrey didn't relax until they were well away from the camp. "I can't thank you fellows enough for coming after me. They were so sure I'd turned, and it was getting a bit unnerving watching that rope grow longer and longer."

"No problem. It's our business," Hogan told him. "We're supposed to be repairing the road, so we'll dress you as a prisoner and bring you in on the work detail. I told Nicholas to make sure the guys at Stalag 5 know you're not a traitor, so you should get back to England with your reputation intact." He shifted slightly in his seat. "Oops."

"What's wrong now?" LeBeau looked behind them as though expecting to see the Gestapo in pursuit.

Hogan dug in his pocket, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, and produced a ring of keys. "The keys to Major Nicholas's solitary cell. I forgot to lock the door after my talk with him. Oh, well, we'll just have to return them . . . after we make a set of copies for ourselves."

"Yeah, you can never have too many keys," Carter piped up. "I always say that . . . I really do."

* * *

Kinch had given up any pretense of working on the road, but he tried to keep Schultz from seeing his frequent glances at his watch. The guard, deep in the throes of opera, was oblivious to the absence of his other prisoners.

"_Alles was dir Sorgen macht, war ein Scherz, von mir erdacht_!" Schultz bellowed in a respectable baritone, clasping his rifle in one meaty fist and clenching the other dramatically over his heart. "Kinch? Sergeant, it is your line."

"Sorry, Schultz. Thinking about something else," he explained, taking a deep breath. "_Und wir alle spielten mit_!"

"Ach, Kinch, you sing so beautifully," Schultz interrupted. "Are you sure you are not German to sing the operas like you do?"

Kinch raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. You tell me, Schultz, do you think I'm German?"

"Never mind. Where was I? _Wie, der Prinz_?" Schultz cut off the last word as five men marched down the road, shovels over their shoulders. "Did you get the road repaired, Colonel Hogan?"

"It's as good as it ever was, Schultz," he assured. "Take us back to camp."

The prisoners arranged themselves into formation around Bentrey as the guard hefted his rifle. "Wait, wait a minute," he complained. "There are six men. I left camp with only five men. There is some monkey business here!"

"Nonsense, Schultz. You just didn't count us properly on the way out," Hogan told him, keeping himself positioned in front of Bentrey. "Come on, let's get back to camp."

"I know I counted five on the way out!" Schultz insisted. "Colonel Hogan, who is this man? He is not one of my prisoners!" He stepped around Hogan and shook his stubby finger in Bentrey's face. "What are you doing in my work detail?"

"You really want to know who he is?" Hogan leaned in close as though sharing a secret.

"I want to know nothing, nothing! I-I-I must have miscounted. Back to camp, all of you, back, back, back!"

* * *

One of the new records that had arrived in camp was playing 'White Christmas' on the phonograph when Schultz swung the recreation hall door open. Ignoring the prisoners casually assembled around a card game, he broke into a wide smile. "_Ach du lieber, ist Der Bingle_!"

"What do you want now, Schultzie?" Newkirk looked up from the hand he had just dealt.

The sergeant looked around the room. "Where is Colonel Hogan? I—oh, there you are, Colonel. Kommandant Klink wishes to see us both in his office."

"What does he want to see me about?" Hogan asked as they crossed the yard.

Schultz shrugged. "Maybe he wants to congratulate us that there was no monkey business while the prisoners were out of camp on the work detail yesterday."

"Well, anything's possible," Hogan acknowledged, pushing open the door. "Colonel Klink? You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I have something very serious that I want to discuss with you," Klink straightened in his chair and adjusted his monocle. "It's about yesterday's work detail."

"The prisoners were all very well behaved and did an excellent job on the road," Schultz spoke up, apprehension widening his eyes.

"Quiet, Schultz!" Klink looked at Hogan. "Colonel, it has been reported to me that some of your men were not spending their whole time working on the road while out of camp."

"Well, you can hardly—" Hogan began, but Klink cut him off mid-sentence.

"I was also told that Sergeant Schultz was participating in their activities. What do you have to say for yourself, Schultz?"

"H-H-Herr Kommandant, I-I-I," the guard stammered. "I know nothing, nothing!"

"A patrol that happened to be passing near the road where the men were supposed to be working," Colonel Klink emphasized the word 'supposed'. "They reported that the men, accompanied by Sergeant Schultz, were singing the operetta 'Die Fledermaus'. Apparently they sung quite well."

Hogan relaxed. "Did they, sir?"

"I understand that you might want to put on an opera in your camp theatre, but why have Sergeant Schultz participate?" Klink spread his hands wide in a questioning gesture. "You know that I love to play the music of the old masters on my violin. I would most gladly provide the orchestra section for the opera."

Schultz and Hogan exchanged glances of mutual horror at the threat. "Thanks for the offer, Kommandant, but I'm afraid you couldn't," Hogan told him.

"And why not?" Klink asked snappishly.

"Sorry, sir. It's against the rules. Fraternization with the prisoners is strictly forbidden." He saluted and ushered Schultz out of the office before Klink could reply.

* * *

_Alles was dir Sorgen macht, war ein Scherz, von mir erdacht_ : "Everything that troubles you was a joke, conceived by me."

_Und wir alle spielten mit_ : "And we all played along."

Johann Strauss, 'Die Fledermaus'


	4. Rapunzel And The Record Player

Disclaimer: I don't own the Heroes but they've graciously appeared in my story anyway.

**_1943, Nazi Germany._**

**_1100 hours local time._**

The recreation hall was usually a noisy, raucous place when occupied by the prisoners of Stalag 13, and this particular day was no exception. Between the three tenors rehearsing a rendition of the Andrews Sisters hit song 'Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy' as a cover for a minor tunnel repair, and the cheers coming from the spectators of a ping-pong game that threatened to reopen long-buried English—Scottish hostilities, a person had to shout to make himself heard.

The door banged open to reveal Colonel Wilhelm Klink, complete with monocle, riding crop and scowl. Behind him were Corporal Langenscheidt and two guards balancing a heavy object between them.

"Achtung!" Langenscheidt attempted. "Achtung! Kommandant Klink is here!"

The noise didn't stop. Instead, if such a thing was possible, it increased.

"There!" Newkirk made a wild swipe with his racket and sent the ball whizzing past McMahon's head. The spectators booed.

"Achtung!" Langenscheidt rattled the door for emphasis.

"So the next day the captain went out and drafted a band, Now the company jumps when he plays reville," the singers warbled.

"Never mind, Langenscheidt!" Klink stomped over to where the senior P.O.W officer was tapping a syncopated rhythm on the side of a cupboard with a pair of drumsticks. "Colonel Hogan, call your men to attention!"

"What?" Hogan looked around. "Oh, hi, Kommandant. Did you say something?"

"I said, call your men to attention!"

"Okay," Hogan shrugged, then raised his voice above the clamor. "Hey, pipe down, fellas, pipe down! The kommandant wants to talk to us!"

Gradually the noise died away as Hogan made himself heard, and the men turned to face the doorway. "Thank you, Hogan." Klink motioned to the two privates.

They carried in a large box and set it carefully on the floor. Klink struck a military pose beside it. "Now you all know that it is my desire to be fair as well as firm," he announced.

"Let's hear it for Colonel Klink's fairness," Hogan led a short round of applause.

With a smug smile, Klink waited for the clapping to end. It did so promptly. "This is the most escape-proof prison in all of Germany, and why? Because I am willing to make these little concessions in order to keep my prisoners content. I have here a new record player—" A cheer went up and drowned his last word. "—a new record player to replace the old one that Colonel Hogan says is giving you trouble."

"That's very generous of you, considering it's only been two months since I asked about it and we did contribute to the expense."

Oblivious to the sarcasm, Klink spread his hands wide. "You're most welcome. Put it right over here for now." He moved to an empty space of wall beside the cupboard and tapped his toe to indicate the exact location.

Unfortunately his action worked the hidden spring in the floorboard for the new hide they had been constructing, and the board popped up to reveal a spare radio part.

"What is this?" the kommandant demanded, picking it up to examine through his monocle. "A radio receiver!"

"Hey, who put a radio receiver here?" Hogan complained. "What's the use of that? Okay, fellas, anyone who has any more radio parts, set 'em up. I'm dying for some baseball results from home." When there was no response, he shrugged casually. "Sorry, sir. Maybe it belongs to one of your men."

"Hogan!" Klink snapped. "There will be severe punishment for this breach of regulations!"

"There goes the ping-pong table again," Hogan sighed.

"No!" Klink pointed to the phonograph box. "Take it away! They won't have it back until they have learned the lesson that nothing escapes Colonel Klink!"

Grumbling arose from the prisoners as they watched the two guards carry the box back out of the rec hall.

"Are you just gonna stand there and let him take our phonograph?" Newkirk brandished his racket as he complained.

"There's nothing I can do," Hogan replied. "When he gets nasty he stays nasty. I'll give him a while to cool down and then ask for it back. Hopefully he will have forgotten about the radio part by then."

"That shouldn't take too long," LeBeau chuckled. "M'sieur Klink's memory has never been very good."

* * *

They were seated around the table waiting for LeBeau to dish up one of his mysterious unnamed specialty dishes when Kinch climbed the ladder out of the tunnel. In his hand was a slip of paper. "Message from London, sir. There's some information coming into camp from an underground unit that they want passed on to an agent. They couldn't say more."

Hogan scrutinized the paper. "Did they say how the information would be coming into camp?"

"Nope." Kinch sat down and picked up his fork.

"Did they tell us who the underground unit is?" Carter asked from across the table.

"Nope."

LeBeau ladled a thick, steaming substance onto each plate. "You all are going to love this recipe. Did they mention who the agent is and how he'll contact us?"

"Nope again." Kinch shrugged.

"That's lovely, that is," Newkirk shook his head. "Sounds like my favorite kind of operation. I just hate knowin' what's going on." He took a bite of his meal and choked.

LeBeau patted him on the back. "That's the black pepper. See, I told you you'd like it."

* * *

Hogan had just entered the particularly enthusiastic volleyball game, replacing a player who left with a nosebleed after taking an elbow to the face, when Klink came marching across the yard toward him. "I need to talk to you, Hogan."

"Just a minute." Hogan served and joined in the shouts as Newkirk dove for the ball, nearly ending up head-first in the net. "Go ahead."

"I would like to speak—" Klink paused as Hogan's attention was clearly not on him. "—privately, if you don't mind."

"S'cuse me, fellas." Hogan ducked out of the game and over to a quieter spot. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"We are going to be visited by a Captain von Schwenke from Berlin. Now I want to make a good impression on the captain, and I am warning you that any infraction of the rules will be crushed without mercy!"

"Whose ear does he have? The fat flyer or the Gestapo guy with glasses?" Hogan bantered. Speechless with annoyance, Klink waved a clenched fist. "Sorry, sir. Is he Luftwaffe, Gestapo or maybe Wehrmacht?"

"Captain von Schwenke is one of our most promising young pilots, and I intend to show him every courtesy during his visit." Klink sniffed. "He may enjoy a tour of the camp, and in that case I will expect you and your men to have the barracks in order."

Hogan eyed a chance to get the record player back. "You, ah, is he planning to be here for a meal? My man LeBeau is a wonderful chef—"

"We will dine at the Hofbrau in town," Klink informed him haughtily. "I will invite some of our local officers and we will enjoy a small party."

"Oh." Hogan stuck out his lower lip thoughtfully. "We'll be on our best behavior . . . oh, by the way, Colonel, I was wondering if you were ready to give our record player back?"

"No!" Klink snapped. "You need to be taught a lesson. No record player!"

"If you say so. But it's pretty hard on morale when the phonograph stutters and makes Tommy Dorsey sound like his trombone has the hiccups," Hogan sulked. "You wouldn't like to blame your first escape from Stalag 13 on a sneezing orchestra, would you?"

"This is the most escape-proof prison in all of Germany," Klink began.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you've taken extra security precautions and there's no chance we can escape," Hogan filled in wearily. "That particular record must be broken—it keeps repeating over and over."

He gave a casual, slouching, limp-handed salute and headed back to the volleyball game.

"Something up?" Kinch asked him under cover of a collision between two players.

Hogan blocked the ball one-fisted. "Just Klink's usual speech. There's a Kraut captain coming into camp and he doesn't want anyone to make him look bad."

"Maybe that agent will try and get into camp using the visit as a diversion," Kinch suggested.

"Good point. I just wish London would give us a bit more information about what's going on. You did ask them to tell you more?"

"I did," Kinch confirmed with a sigh. "Three times I asked. They don't know anything more than what they told us—apparently the underground unit that's passing on the information had to shut down radio contact in a hurry."

"Great. I guess we just wait and see what turns up." Hogan shifted his attention back to the game just in time to see the ball coming at his face. There was a loud smacking sound as it impacted.

* * *

Nursing a vaguely purplish-black forehead, Colonel Hogan was studying a map of western Germany when Newkirk tapped on his office door. "Beggin' your pardon, Colonel, but that Kraut captain just drove into camp. Looks like Klink's givin' him the grand tour."

"Thanks, Newkirk." Hogan went to the barracks door, where the rest of his men were gathered. "Hmm. A Luftwaffe captain with three soldiers to escort him? This guy must be some kind of somebody to warrant treatment like that."

Colonel Klink was practically dancing with overinflated ego as the captain spoke to him. Within minutes the two were walking directly toward Hogan's men, trailed by the three guards.

The prisoners came to attention, or at least as much as they ever did for visiting German brass. Hogan stepped forward. "Colonel Hogan, senior officer of the prisoners reporting, sir!"

"Ah, Captain von Schwenke, this is Colonel Hogan, our senior P.O.W. officer," Klink repeated. "Hogan, Captain von Schwenke of the Luftwaffe."

"Captain," Hogan nodded in a not unfriendly manner.

The tall, blond-haired officer offered a precise salute and a click of his heels. "A pleasure, Colonel. You were a pilot?" He spoke very good English with a trace of a German accent under the British.

"Still am one, in fact, just temporarily on holiday," Hogan smiled. "Fighters or bombers?"

"Captain von Schwenke is testing our new Focke-Wulf fighter plane. His advice is very highly valued in Berlin," Klink chattered. He subsided as the captain eyed him with the same look a _hausfrau_ gives a weevil she finds crawling in her sack of flour.

"Colonel Hogan will of course understand that we cannot discuss military matters of the Third Reich in the presence of an Allied prisoner," von Schwenke said evenly.

"You speak very good English, Captain," Hogan commented to keep up the social chit-chat. People often didn't realize how much they gave away while making small talk.

Von Schwenke gave a gracious inclination of his head. "I was fortunate to enjoy a great deal of travel as a youngster, which included time spent in Britain. My nurse taught me to read the English language from books of children's tales when I was but five years of age."

"Is that so?" Hogan prompted.

"Yes. My favorite was always the tale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears." He smiled in a distant, reminiscing way.

Hogan felt LeBeau's sharp intake of breath beside him, and Newkirk abruptly cleared his throat.

"You are familiar with the story?" von Schwenke asked. "I had a particular fondness for the character of Papa Bear. He seemed to know such a great deal."

"Isn't it marvellous how things we read in our childhood stay with us in later life?" Klink broke in with his characteristic nervous giggle. "I remember reading the story of Rapunzel by the brothers Grimm when I was a small child—"

"But no one's gonna climb a tower by your hair," Hogan's remark effectively reduced the kommandant to outraged splutters. Von Schwenke bit the corner of his lip and managed not to smile.

"Ho-gan!" Klink gasped.

Colonel Hogan arranged his face into suitable remorse. "Sorry, sir. Bad taste."

"Shall we continue the tour?" Klink asked when he had pulled himself together and gotten his voice back.

"Sure, don't let me hold you up," Hogan waved his hand around in a semicircle. "This is Barracks 2, a fairly standard example, decorated in a casual grimy era. Would you care to see inside?"

Klink tugged on his guest's elbow. "Captain, there is no need for you to be subjected to Hogan's peculiar style of humor. I would be most happy to show you any of the prisoners' barracks that you care to see. Dismissed, Hogan."

"Perhaps we will have a chance to talk later, Colonel." Von Schwenke bowed formally and allowed himself to be led away.

"Colonel, do you think he could be the agent?" LeBeau hissed as soon as the Germans were out of earshot.

"I don't know. If he is, he's running a big risk being seen here. Top test pilots don't usually hang out with bald eagles that have had their wings clipped." Hogan ducked back inside. "Tell Kinch to ask London about him. I'll see if I can talk to him again before he and Klink go out to dinner."

* * *

Newkirk snatched up the five of diamonds and added it to his hand with a gleeful chuckle. "The trouble is, what am I gonna throw out?" he asked himself out loud.

"How 'bout throwing the seven of clubs?" Carter suggested.

"Because I haven't got the seven of clubs, now, have I?" the Englishman retorted. "Trust you to ask something like that."

Carter smiled innocently, undisturbed by Newkirk's evident contempt. "At least I know you haven't got the seven of clubs in your hand."

Newkirk's snort was interrupted by the opening of the door. Schultz marched in with a small, dark-haired man in German uniform trailing behind him. "_Guten Tag_, everyone. Please, don't get up," Schultz said graciously. "This is only an informal visit."

"Hi, Schultz," Carter said as though just noticing him. No one moved to rise.

"Is Colonel Hogan here?" the other soldier asked timidly, glancing around the barracks.

Newkirk turned his head, looked the soldier up and down, and then nodded to LeBeau. The Frenchman dropped his wooden spoon into the dish he was seasoning and went to knock on the office door. The card players continued with their game.

"Colonel Hogan, one of the guards that arrived with the Boche captain is here wanting to see you." The words made Hogan's head snap up.

"Thanks, LeBeau. Send him in . . . and stand by, huh?"

"Oui." LeBeau went back to the stove and immediately stirred his mixture. "The colonel is in his office," he threw over his shoulder.

"_Danke_." The German checked over both shoulders again and then entered the office.

Schultz looked over Newkirk's shoulder. "I hope that he does not make Colonel Hogan upset. I saw him get hit with the ball during the volleyball game, and he will not be happy to have his rest interrupted. I think you should play this card, Newkirk."

The Englishman scowled up at him. "I'm playin' this game, if you don't mind, Schultzie?" He dropped the eight of diamonds on the discard pile.

"Gin." Carter laid down his hand.

"I thought you wanted the seven of clubs!" Newkirk exploded, throwing down his cards to reveal a hand that, except for the seven, would have been gin.

Carter grinned and began to shuffle the deck. "I know. That's why I didn't need it."

* * *

"Something I can do for you?" Hogan inquired calmly. "I'd offer you a chair, but we tend toward more sparse furnishings here."

"I am fine," the German soldier replied. "I just need to talk to you, Colonel."

"Talk away." Hogan leaned his shoulders against his upper bunk and crossed his arms.

In an almost inaudible voice, the soldier said, "The clouds hang heavy over the parched land." His expression was half way between hope and apprehension.

Hogan started at the code phrase used to identify the underground unit operating out of Dusseldorf. "But no rain gives relief to the earth," he replied after a moment. "You're the agent they said was coming in? Not von Schwenke?"

"Von Schwenke is no Allied agent," the soldier declared. "He is exactly what he appears to be—an aristocratic pilot who prefers the frivolous to the serious. I took the blueprints of his new plane and delivered them to the underground to make copies. Now I must have the plans back, or my superiors will know there has been a leak."

"Where are the plans? They said that the information would be coming into camp, but they didn't say how." Hogan noticed that the soldier didn't give his name, and he didn't ask.

"In the record player that was sent into camp. Please, I must have them immediately."

"Oh boy." Hogan gave a tug to his cap. "We don't have the record player yet. It was confiscated as punishment."

Panic spread over the German's face. "But I must take the plans back to Berlin! We leave in the morning!"

"Don't you worry." Hogan was already worrying enough for both of them. "I'll get your plans for you. Listen, come back here after Klink's party in town. I'll have them for you by then."

The soldier stared at him. "But Colonel—"

"Just make sure you come back here. I'll think of some way to get the plans out of the record player," Hogan assured. "You better get back to von Schwenke before he comes looking for you."

"Thank you, Colonel." The soldier moved from the office out into the barracks with Hogan trailing behind, and then turned at the door and drew himself up. With military precision he saluted the colonel.

Hogan returned the salute gravely. Speechless, the men watched the German leave with Schultz.

"Well, I got news for you. Von Schwenke isn't our agent," Hogan announced when the door closed.

"You mean it's that bloke who just left?" Newkirk asked. "Where's the information he's pickin' up? Don't suppose he told you, did 'e?"

"It's hidden in the record player that Klink confiscated." Hogan accepted a cup of coffee from LeBeau with a nod of thanks. "If I can't talk Klink into giving it up, Newkirk, I'll need your ten magic fingers to get into the storeroom. We have to have those plans to give the agent after that party of Klink's."

"It's a pity we want the phonograph," Carter observed. Everyone stared at him, and he turned red. "Well, if we didn't want it so much, Klink wouldn't mind giving it to us. He's like that, you know."

Hogan abruptly set down his coffee cup and walked out of the barracks without saying anything.

Carter looked around blankly. "Where's he going in such a hurry?"

"You probably sent him round the bend with your crazy nattering. "It's a pity we want the phonograph", indeed," Newkirk rolled his eyes.

* * *

Hogan went straight to the kommandant's private quarters, expecting to find the colonel primping in preparation for his party, but the rooms were deserted.

"That's funny," he told the vase of flowers on the table. "I was so sure he'd be here. You don't think he's still working, do you?"

The vase made no reply, and Hogan left with a shrug.

He entered the office to find Hilda's desk empty and the door to Klink's private office slightly ajar. Moving on tiptoes, he leaned against the filing cabinet to eavesdrop.

"Are you sure you can't make it to the party?" Klink whined. "We would be delighted to have you join us tonight, Fraulein Hilda."

"_Danke_, but I'm afraid I just can't come," Hilda's soft voice replied. "Will that be all, Herr Kommandant?"

"But I thought that perhaps after the party you and I could go to a nice little cafe . . . enjoy each other's company . . . just the two of us."

Hogan rolled his eyes. He couldn't think of anything less likely to entice a girl than the promise of undiluted Klink. Deciding it was time he rescued Hilda, he gave one firm rap to the door and strolled straight in.

"Good afternoon Kommandant, I hope I'm not intruding?" he said cheerfully, knowing full well from the way Klink scuttled back to his desk chair that he was definitely intruding.

"Of course you are, Hogan. Every time I see you, you seem to be interrupting something. Now state your business and leave. I have a party to prepare for." Col. Klink picked up a pencil and pretended to write.

Hogan winked at Hilda, and she cast him a grateful smile before vanishing out the door. "It's about the record player, sir."

"No, Hogan!" Klink threw down the pencil and glared up at him. "You may not have it!"

"It's okay, sir, I'm not asking for it back. I just wanted to tell you we've changed our minds. We'd like a piano instead."

Klink stood and stalked around his desk until they were nose to nose. "A piano?"

"Yeah. That way we can play whatever music we want and we won't be restricted to what's on the records. Nothing fancy, just a nice little grand piano from Steinway & Sons." Hogan gave an airy wave of his hand.

"But-but-but what about the record player?" Klink stammered. "It's a very good one and it cost a lot of money."

"That's your problem." Hogan saluted and turned to leave, counting the steps. His hand closed around the doorknob and twisted.

He had stepped through the doorway when he heard a "Wait, Hogan," from behind him. Concealing his smile, he spun around.

"Hogan, I have come to a decision," Klink said primly. "Since your men had the barracks in order and have not caused any trouble during Captain von Schwenke's visit, I have decided to release the record player that was being held as punishment."

"Well, that's very generous of you, sir, but really a piano would be—"

Klink cut him off. "That is my decision, Hogan. I will have Schultz and Langenscheidt take the record player to the recreation hall in the morning. Diiiis-missed."

"How about tonight, sir?" Hogan suggested. "It'll take the men's minds off the piano that much sooner, and they did so have their hearts set on it."

"All right, all right," Klink flapped his hand in annoyance. "Schultz!"

The guard entered with a gusty sigh and stains around his mouth that betrayed his habit of eating American chocolate. "You called, Herr Kommandant?"

"Yes I did. Take Colonel Hogan back to his barracks, and then you and Corporal Langenscheidt bring the confiscated record player to the recreation hall," Klink ordered, making shooing motions. "Now I really must go and prepare for my party."

Schultz heaved another sigh as he and Hogan left. "He interrupted my dinner. Now I must take you back to your barracks, and then move the phonograph, and by that time there will be nothing left of Corporal Hinklemann's potato soup."

"It's okay, Schultz." Hogan patted his shoulder consolingly. "You just go and unlock the storeroom and go back to your dinner, and Newkirk and I will move the record player."

"Oh, thank you, Colonel Hogan," Schultz beamed. He waddled away to open the storeroom as Hogan signaled for Newkirk.

The two prisoners located the record player concealed behind a stack of crates, and while Hogan stood guard, Newkirk examined the case. "This is a pretty nice player, you know, guv'nor. Must've cost a pretty penny."

"It's okay, Newkirk. I gave them counterfeit money we'd printed to buy it," Hogan reassured.

"In that case, I'm glad he got us a good one." Newkirk continued his search. "Hello, what've we got here? These look like the plans our man wants, Colonel?"

Hogan glanced over the papers that Newkirk handed him. "Perfect. Let's get this over to the rec hall before Klink changes his mind."

* * *

It was after midnight when the two staff cars drove into camp. Hogan had been sprawled on his bunk, half-dozing, but as soon as he heard the vehicles he pulled his jacket on and headed out into the night.

Ducking searchlights, he waited until Klink had gone inside before slipping over to the car. The agent was in the driver's seat, alert and anxious, but von Schwenke and the other two guards were sprawled in their seats with eyes closed and mouths open.

"Looks like you've got a few tight passengers," Hogan bantered quietly.

The German shrugged. "They will sleep all the way back to Berlin. You have the plans?"

"Safe and sound." Hogan pulled the bulging envelope from under his jacket and handed it over. "Drive carefully."

"Thank you very much, Colonel."

As the car pulled away, Hogan heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Klink coming from his quarters. "Hogan, what are you doing out of the barracks at this time of night?"

"I heard vehicles, sir, and I wanted to see what was going on. Did you have a nice party?"

Klink groaned. "No I did not have a nice party. That von Schwenke is an awful guest. Do you know what he did, Hogan?"

"No, but I have a feeling I'm going to find out." Hogan stifled a yawn.

"He told stories all evening. Nursery stories. Fairy tales! I don't think he has one serious thought in his head! Why a man like that has a trusted position as a test pilot while men of wit and talent like myself are overlooked, I'll never know."

"It's Berlin's loss, sir," Hogan consoled. "Next time you have a party for him, maybe you should take a record player. Music might distract him."

Klink ignored the suggestion. "You know, Hogan, von Schwenke's driver is as foolish as he is. He followed me all the way here from town, and then turned around and left as soon as we got here."

"Maybe he found what he was looking for," Hogan offered complacently. He saluted and left before Klink could ask him what he meant, striding back to his barracks with a jaunty swing to his step.


	5. Where Is My Telephone?

_Disclaimer:_ I don't own any of these characters but they've graciously appeared in my stories anyway.

**_October 1943, Nazi Germany._**

**_1600 hours local time._**

The tunnel room seemed crowded with four men working there. Kinch occupied his usual place at the radio, scribbling frantically on a clipboard, while Newkirk sat beside him as a backup with the spare receiver pressed to his ear, repeating the results aloud.

Carter sat on the far side of the table, writing down what Newkirk said, and as each piece of paper was filled, LeBeau took it up the tunnel ladder to Colonel Hogan.

Hogan was proofreading each page before taking it out to post on the notice board outside the barracks, where a noisy crowd was gathering. Amid cheers, boos and protests he tacked up the papers and slunk through the group of prisoners to return to his post.

"They don't sound very happy," LeBeau commented as he passed another paper to the colonel.

Hogan shook his head. "They aren't. I think every American prisoner in this camp must be a Yankees fan. If the Cardinals win this World Series we're liable to have a mass escape."

The Frenchman rolled his eyes. "You become so excited over a group of men hitting a little ball and running in circles. Americans."

"It's a diamond, LeBeau." Hogan threw over his shoulder on the way to the door.

As he stepped out of the barracks he was met by a swarm of eager baseball fans. The excitement of something new to think about had gone beyond the American prisoner contingent to the other nationalities in camp, and he had to fight to keep the paper from being snatched from his hand.

"What is going on here?" The slightly desperate sound to the voice of Sergeant Schultz suggested that he had been shouting for some time. He used his substantial bulk to push his way through the throng until he was face to face with Hogan.

"Hi, Schultz." Hogan grinned and discreetly tucked the paper into his pocket with one hand as he relieved Schultz of his rifle with the other. "We're just going over old baseball results, seeing how much we can remember, aren't we, fellas?"

The men took his cue and began reciting baseball statistics from the late 1930s. Unfortunately for Schultz, they all spoke at once and he couldn't understand any of it.

"That's enough!" he finally bellowed. "I want to know nothing about baseball! Nothing!"

He pushed his way out of the group and marched away as Hogan turned to post the page of results. The reaction was immediate.

Hogan fought his way out and stood waiting on the edge of the group for Schultz to come back and retrieve the rifle he still held.

"_Danke_, Colonel Hogan," Schultz sighed. "They are so noisy!"

"Oh, it's required," Hogan assured him. "Page eighty-six, rule one-oh-nine in the Handbook for American Baseball Fans says that no cheer for a home run shall be lower than fifty decibels."

"Jolly jokers," the guard mumbled.

Hogan headed back inside and was met by a worried Carter. "Colonel Hogan, big trouble. The radio's conked out and Kinch can't get it going again."

"That is big trouble!" Hogan glanced out at the gathering. "If they get wind of that, well, it won't be pretty. What's the score up to?"

Carter followed him down the tunnel and closed the entrance. "That's the worst part. We don't know. A message started coming in from London, and Kinch was in the middle of taking it down when the radio died."

"Kinch?" Hogan stepped into the radio room and found the operator on hands and knees under the table. "What's up?"

Kinch pulled himself back up to a standing position. "We got trouble, Colonel. We need a new part for it. London was in the middle of saying that they have some important information, but I don't know what that is."

"You can't put something together from the spares down here?" Hogan checked.

"Nope." Kinch shook his head. "It's burned out and needs a whole new part. We gave our spare to the underground last month."

Hogan sighed. "Okay, we've got two jobs that we need volunteers for. One shouldn't be too hard, the other is very dangerous."

"Two jobs?" Newkirk asked suspiciously. "I know what one is. Someone's gonna have to go into town for the radio part, bein' out of camp, in civilian clothes, runnin' the risk of meeting a bunch of nasty Krauts."

"That's right," Hogan confirmed. "Then comes the dangerous job. Telling all those guys out there that we don't know how the game ends."

* * *

With the reluctant volunteer for the Hamilburg mission in tow, Hogan entered the outer office of the commandant. "Is ol' Blood and Guts asleep yet?" he asked Hilda.

Her eyes twinkled. "He's been snoring for twenty minutes."

"Good." Hogan turned to LeBeau and raised his voice. "I tell you, the whole thing's impossible!"

"Please, Colonel. There will be no escape," LeBeau called back. "You cannot expect me to let this occasion pass without making some little gesture!"

"The whole idea is foolish! Just wait 'til Klink hears about it. He'll split his sides laughing!" Hogan heard a noise from the inner office and smiled. "I forbid you to mention this to him, you hear?"

"Mention what to who?" Colonel Klink snapped, yanking the door open.

Hogan turned and smiled innocently. "Shouldn't that be whom, Colonel? Sloppy grammar makes a sloppy prison camp."

LeBeau chimed in, "And a sloppy prison camp is—"

"Never mind my grammar! What is it that you don't want me to hear about? Now you will tell me, or I will force it out of you!" Klink shook his finger to emphasize the threat.

"Well, LeBeau had this silly idea that you should be celebrating the fact that you've had absolutely no successful escapes since you became Kommandant of Stalag 13," Hogan told him.

"I was going to bake you a special cake with 'Klink' written in icing on the top," LeBeau added in a thwarted tone.

Klink beamed. "Why that is very generous of you LeBeau!"

"But of course I told him that the whole thing was impossible," Hogan laughed. "I mean, where's he gonna find cake fixings here? Someone would have to go all the way into town for the ingredients, and how could you be sure they'd get the right stuff? Imagine the disaster if your cake was iced with salt instead of sugar!"

"Oh dear." Klink screwed his face up in thought, finally brightening. "LeBeau could go into town under guard and get what he needs for the cake!"

"Why didn't I think of that? You see what it takes to solve these problems?" Hogan asked LeBeau, who just shrugged at him.

Klink smiled smugly. "I will send Schultz along as guard. But you must promise me that there will be no escape."

"Naturally." Hogan nodded. "Who'd want to leave all this?"

* * *

Schultz sat jammed behind the wheel of the truck, humming the trumpet line of 'Marie' under his breath, while beside him LeBeau cradled the guard's unloaded rifle on his lap.

"When we get to town, the first place we will stop is the greengrocer's," LeBeau ordered, reading the list in his hand. "Then we will go to the market, and after that if you are very well behaved I will take you to the Hofbrau for a beer."

"_Danke_, Cockroach, that is very generous of you," Schultz replied with mild sarcasm. "And I will of course do the same for you, if you are well behaved."

He hummed a few more lines of his song before a thought occurred to him. "Why are we stopping at the greengrocer? I thought you were baking a cake. There is not some monkey business, I hope?"

"Of course I am baking a cake," LeBeau reassured him. "But we will buy some apples as well, in case I have enough ingredients left over to make a strudel."

Schultz relaxed. "_Sehr gut_."

The truck jolted to a stop with one wheel up on the sidewalk. LeBeau shoved the rifle across the seat and vanished into the store while Schultz squirmed out of the vehicle and fumbled with his gun. He stumbled into the store in time to hear the end of a friendly exchange about dogs between his prisoner and the elderly storekeeper.

LeBeau handed his list to Max. "I need these vegetables right away."

"Vegetables?" Schultz mumbled. "I thought we came in here for apples to make a strudel." But no one listened to him.

"I am sorry." Max shook his head sadly. "It will be at least two days, possibly three, before the farmers bring their produce in."

"But we need them immediately! It is for a special recipe from London that the men are eager to taste," LeBeau pleaded.

Max tucked the list into his pocket. "There are no vegetables of that kind ripe yet in the whole town of Hamilburg. I will tell you as soon as they arrive and set some aside for you."

"_Merci bien_," LeBeau sighed, resigned to taking bad news back to camp. "We will take two dozen apples and half a dozen of the carrots, please."

The grocer gathered the fruit and vegetables and named a price. "Pay him, Schultzie," LeBeau ordered casually. "And don't forget to put them in the truck before you come down to the market. _Au revoir_, Max."

Sulking, Schultz counted payment into the waiting hand as the Frenchman strolled out. "It is not fair. Sometimes I wonder who is the prisoner here."

"Enjoy your shopping," Max called as he left. Schultz didn't reply.

* * *

Col Hogan's office door swung open, revealing the senior officer's frowning face. "LeBeau, that cake isn't for Klink, is it?"

"Of course not." LeBeau didn't look up from the enormous cake he was decorating. "This one is for us. Klink's one is over on the table."

Hogan wandered out and picked up the saucer-sized confection. It was coated in white icing with the name 'Klink' scripted in red across the top. "What if Klink asks where the rest of the stuff went?"

"I will tell him that only the best of the ingredients could be used in a cake to honor such an achievement as a perfect no-escape record," LeBeau stated smugly as he added an extra flourish to a swirl of sugar. "Believe me, when he sees how much of his money I spent on these cakes, he will be sure that I used the very best ingredients."

"Care to let a fellow have a lil' taste?" Newkirk casually reached out toward the larger cake, but yanked his hand back with a yelp as the chef brought a wooden spoon smartly down.

LeBeau glared at him. "That will teach you not to meddle with one of my creations!"

"Colonel Hogan, did you see what he did to me poor fingers?" Newkirk complained.

"Hey, go easy on those fingers, LeBeau," Hogan said in a mildly scolding tone. "Beat on the rest of him all you like, but we need his safe-cracking hands on occasion."

"Well," Newkirk wasn't sure whether to be pleased with Hogan's perspective or not. "I'm glad I'm good for somethin', anyway."

Hogan had on his thinking look, and slowly paced from the table to the stove and back. "Newkirk, do you think you could pull the parts we need out of Klink's radio?"

"That sounds like a good idea to me!" LeBeau agreed, giving a final dab to the cake and standing back to admire his handiwork.

"Sorry, Colonel." Newkirk shook his head. "Klink's radio hasn't worked since the last time we raided it for the underground group. He's waiting for a shipment of new parts to get it fixed."

"Hey, I have an idea," Carter piped up from his sprawled position on his bunk. The book he had been reading was lying open and facedown on his chest, and his hands were laced behind his head. "Why don't we get London to phone us the information? They could call Klink's private number, and we could tap into it."

His suggestion was met with groans from everyone except Hogan. "Hold that idea in reserve, Carter, we may get desperate enough to use it," the colonel said gloomily.

The bunk mattress rattled upward and Kinch climbed out of the tunnel. "I've looked through everything we've got down there but I can't find a single piece to repair that radio," he announced.

"And London's sending some information that we don't even know what it is to prepare for it." Hogan picked up a mug and poured himself a drink from the pot on the stove.

Kinch tapped the catch on the side of the bunk, and the mattress settled into place as the barracks door swung open.

"_Was is los?_" Schultz demanded, then held his finger to his lips. "No, please—don't tell me."

"Would it make you feel better if we told you that we weren't going to tell you?" Carter asked from behind his book.

Schultz looked down at him with as much of a smirk as his round face could manage. "It is no use trying to confuse me, Carter. I am too smart for that. Whose turn is it to clean Kommandant Klink's office?"

The men exchanged glances and Hogan spoke up. "It's Newkirk's turn, and I'm going along to supervise."

"Here, wait a minute," Newkirk protested. "I cleaned the place last week. It must be LeBeau's turn."

The Frenchman didn't look up from the adjustment he was making to the decoration on the cake. "I'm busy."

"Ooohh, cake!" Schultz lit up. "Is this the cake we went to town for?" His reaching fingers met the same fate as Newkirk's. "Ow. I hope you are not planning to waste that whole cake on Kommandant Klink. He would never share it with anyone."

"'Anyone' meaning a certain sergeant of the guard?" Hogan teased.

"There is a lot of me to keep up," Schultz recited his standard excuse as he patted his stomach. "Newkirk, it is time to clean the office. Kommandant Klink was complaining just this morning that he can see dust on his shelves."

"Yeah, let's get going, Newkirk," Hogan urged.

"All right, all right," Newkirk grumbled, sweeping his cards into a pile and tucking them away somewhere on his person. "But if LeBeau starts dishin' up that cake before I get back, I won't be answerable for what 'appens."

* * *

With his feet on the desk and his hands clasped over his stomach, the sound coming from the vicinity of Col Wilhelm Klink was not the voice of command, nor the scratch of a diligent pencil, but the gentle snoring of a man who believes that he has already accomplished quite enough for one day.

There was no warning knock before the door to his office swung open and the cheerful announcement of "Good afternoon sir, I hope I'm not disturbing your work!" rang in his startled ears.

Klink swung his feet down and in a practiced move snatched up a pencil and bent over his desk before realizing who had invaded his privacy. "Hogan, what are you doing here?"

"Maid service," Hogan said glibly, moving aside to reveal Newkirk holding a bucket and feather duster. "It'll only take a minute, sir, and then you can go back to your nap."

"If you'll just allow me, sir—" Newkirk moved around behind the desk and not-so-subtly elbowed Klink out of the way as he began to sweep the duster back and forth. Huffing in annoyance, Klink moved aside.

Hogan looked intently at Newkirk for a second and then dropped his eyes to the desk with a slight nod. Newkirk winked in return.

"Kommandant, while Newkirk is working, there's something I want to discuss with you," Hogan leaned against the filing cabinet in the corner so that Klink had to turn his back to the desk. "It's about your reports to Berlin."

"What about them?" Klink looked as though he was debating between scolding or cowering.

"I don't think it's fair that you only report when the prisoners breach regulations. It puts us in a bad light and makes the authorities in Berlin think negative thoughts about us."

Newkirk quietly reached down to the wall and disconnected the telephone wire, coiling it up in smooth movements.

"Hogan, the only reason the General Staff think negative thoughts about you is because you behave negatively toward them!" Klink snapped, pleased with his own wit.

"Yeah, but think how much more pleasant it would be for everyone if you reported the times that the prisoners do such a good job of cleaning your office, of washing your windows, of lining up at roll call every morning even though they would rather be sleeping in . . ." Warming to his topic, Hogan raised his voice to cover the sound of the telephone being set carefully in the bucket.

"They're supposed to show up at roll call!" Klink said pettishly. "They're prisoners, and that's what prisoners do."

"Not at other camps they don't. Sometimes they escape, and do you know why they escape?"

"No Hogan I don't know! I don't even know why I'm having this discussion with you!"

Newkirk grabbed a handful of paper from the wastebasket and dumped it on top of the bucket contents.

"They escape because the atmosphere around the prison camps is so negative that they feel they have no choice but to leave," Hogan declared as Newkirk slipped out of the office. "The Kommandants send reports back to Headquarters detailing all the prisoners' faults, and then they feel like they have a bad reputation to live up to."

"Are you quite finished, Hogan?" Klink stomped his foot for emphasis.

"Yes, I think that covers it."

"Then you will kindly take your duster and your Englishman and get out of my office!" His voice rose to a shout at the end of the sentence, then abruptly faded. "Where did the Englishman go?"

"Oh, I told him to head back to the barracks as soon as he was finished," Hogan explained, strolling toward the door. "You will try and be a little more positive in your reports, won't you, sir?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be—Hogan!"

"You're dismissed. Yes, thank you, sir. Goodbye, Hogan. Goodbye, Kommandant. Sleep well." Hogan finished both sides of the exchange and pulled the door closed behind him before Klink could retort.

Kinch and Carter were playing cards when the two 'cleaners' entered the barracks. "Did anyone else find anything to fix that radio?" Kinch asked without looking up from his hand.

"See what you think of this." Newkirk set the bucket on the table on top of the card game.

"Oh, a basket of paper! Thanks, Newkirk. It's just what I need." Kinch's sarcasm was friendly but confused.

"Not the paper, old man. This!" With a flourish he pulled out the telephone, scattering crumpled paper in all directions. "We liberated it from ol' Klink's desk. See if you can use the parts."

The radio man took the instrument and turned it over in his hands. "It might just work at that."

"Better go see what you can do with it," Hogan advised. "It won't be long and London will be off the air until tomorrow."

"And that means another delay in getting them the information from them," Kinch added, tapping the catch to the bunk tunnel entrance.

"And a delay in finding out who won the baseball game," Hogan finished.

* * *

Klink had resumed his nap with determination and had almost achieved the same depth of slumber as Hogan had interrupted, when a gentle knock on his door roused him to irritation. "What is it?" he barked.

Hilda stuck her head in. "Herr Kommandant, General Burkhalter has been on the line for five minutes waiting to speak with you. He wants to know why you have not picked up your phone?"

"Because it's not on my—" Klink stared in horror at the empty space on his desk where his phone usually sat. "What's happened to it? It's gone!"

"Perhaps you should come out and use mine?" Hilda suggested. "The general is waiting."

Klink hustled out and snatched up the receiver that rested on Hilda's desk. "Good afternoon, General Burkhalter, how delightful it is to hear from you!"

"Klink, how dare you make me wait for so long? What have you been doing?" The shrill scratch of Burkhalter's voice made the colonel shudder, even with many miles between them.

"Well, General, I lost—that is to say, I can't seem to find my phone at the moment." Klink attempted a cheery laugh and only managed to produce a choking sound.

"Dummkopf! You're holding it to your ear!"

"Oh, no, no, Herr General, this isn't my phone," Klink stammered. "I'm using Hilda's phone, because mine has mysteriously disappeared."

"Shut up and listen before I send you somewhere that your phone will freeze to your ear! Then you won't be able to lose it," Burkhalter threatened. "I have just received your most recent reports on the situation at Stalag 13."

"Herr General, it was an accident . . . I can explain everything—"

The general ignored him. "Is it really necessary to make a list of every time you think your prisoners are plotting mischief? Do you think that the General Staff wants to hear that Corporal Braun is offended because the prisoner Newkirk stuck out his tongue at him during roll call? We are fighting a war, Klink, not squabbling on a kindergarten playground!"

"Yes sir, absolutely, sir. Stalag 13 will remain the most efficient P.O.W. camp in all of Germany. Our no escape record remains intact—"

"What record?" Burkhalter jeered. "I thought your telephone had made an escape."

"But sir, that's different . . ."

"None of your excuses, Klink! You will make your reports more efficient or suffer the consequences! That is all!" There was a click as the receiver on the general's end was slammed down.

Klink stared miserably at the phone in his hand. "First Hogan, now Burkhalter. What have I done to deserve this?"

* * *

Evening roll call was a sober affair. Kinch was late coming out of the tunnels, and Hogan grimly ordered the other men in his barracks to cover for him.

Schultz knew full well that Kinchloe was missing, and the dread of Klink's wrath reduced him to unintelligible stammering, which LeBeau and Newkirk took full advantage of to upset his counting of the prisoners.

Kommandant Klink ignored the stutters of the sergeant and launched into an angry monologue about the loss of his phone, beginning with the words, "I will personally throw every prisoner here into the cooler unless my telephone is returned at once!"

"That would be kinda hard for—" Hogan's smart reply was cut off by Kinch's appearance. The tall sergeant slipped into his usual place and smiled innocently at Schultz. "Did you get in touch with London?" Hogan murmured.

"You're not going to believe this, Colonel," Kinch muttered back. "I did contact them."

"And?"

"That information that they were sending? Get this—they were telling us about the next parachute drop. They're sending in spare radio parts."

It took a full five seconds for Hogan to drag his jaw up. "You're kidding!"

"Yeah, that's about what I said. I've got the results from the World Series game, too."

The colonel perked up. "Good, that'll avert a riot."

"Only if the guys approve of the winners," Kinch shoved his hands in his pockets. "If it's any comfort, I put Klink's phone back together so it can go back on his desk if necessary."

Hogan eyed his second-in-command with a knowing expression. "Will it work?"

"Sure it'll work." Kinch grinned. "If all he wants to do is use it for a paperweight."

"Okay, let's get it back to him before he busts a blood vessel. Bring it over to his office when LeBeau brings the cake," Hogan ordered, and then stepped forward out of line to interrupt Klink's lecture.

"Colonel Klink, we're all very sorry to hear that you've mislaid your telephone," he said with mock sympathy. "But if you recall, Corporal LeBeau was baking you a cake. Perhaps eating it will make you feel better."

"It won't make me feel—is it a chocolate cake?" Klink asked hopefully. "Prisoners dismissed!—except for the little Cockroach."

"LeBeau, bring out the cake for Colonel Klink. Come on, fellas," Hogan led his men in a procession toward Klink's office, with the helpless kommandant trailing behind.

The office seemed crowded with the men assembled there. Kinch and LeBeau were the last to arrive.

"Now, let's everyone sing for Colonel Klink!" Hogan waved his arms like a conductor and started an a cappella rendition of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow'.

LeBeau raised the plate with the miniature cake and waved it back and forth under Klink's nose as he sang, holding his attention while Kinch set the telephone back in its original location.

"Thank you, thank you very much," Klink nodded graciously when the song ended, taking the plate and cradling it between both hands. "LeBeau, I'm sure this cake will be delicious. But isn't it rather small?"

The Frenchman smiled serenely. "I can assure you that in my cooking, quality is valued above quantity."

"Oh. I see. But Hogan, this still does not excuse the theft of my telephone!"

"What theft, sir?" Hogan was the picture of innocence.

"The telephone someone stole from my desk today! General Burkhalter was very upset when his talk with me was delayed—he finds it so hard to do without my advice." Klink declared.

"Would you be referring to the telephone on your desk, sir?" On cue, Carter and Newkirk stepped aside to reveal the instrument.

"What? How—it wasn't there before!"

Hogan immediately arranged his face into righteous indignation. "Really sir, I think you owe my men an apology for accusing them."

"All right, all right. I'm sorry." Klink looked as though he had tasted a lemon.

"You're forgiven," Hogan said. "Come on, guys. Let's leave the Kommandant to his dessert."

"Would you like a very little taste?" The tone made it clear that Klink was only offering for the sake of politeness.

Hogan turned from following the men out of the office. "No thanks, I'll pass. I have some baseball results to check out, and besides, when I eat cake I like to have a really big slice. Good night, sir."

* * *

Author's note: A very special thank you to all those who have kindly reviewed, encouraged, critiqued and made suggestions. I'm very grateful to you all! Merry Christmas!


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